Mary  J.   L.    Mc  Donald 


9^r  ■ 


mat" 


GEORGE  MACDONALD»S  WRITINGS. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  ON  WOOD  AND  STEEL. 


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Wilf  nd  Cumbermede.     An  Autobiographical  Story. 
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Weighed  and  Wanting. 
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"  IT   WAS   NINE   o'clock    AS   SHE   STOOD   ON   THE 
STEPS,  AND  I  APPROACHED  HER   FROM  THE  LAWN." 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 


9  Siequd  to  "  tf  nnals  of  a  4&uiet  NngObor|)aoli ' 


By  GEORGE  MACDONALD,  LL.D. 

AUTHOR  OF  "  ROBERT  FALCONER,"  "  RANALD  BANNBRMAN,'"  "  AT  THB  BACK  OF 
THE    NORTH    WIND,"    ETC. 


yiMj^ 


LONDON 

GEORGE     ROUTLEDGE  AND     SONS 

15ROADWAY,    LUDGATE  HILL 

GLASGOW    AND    NEW  YORK 


IN  MEMOR[AM 


TO 

JAMES   POWELL/ Esq., 

MtS  CRATEFUI.   AND    LOVING 

SON-IN-LAW 

DEDICATES  THIS    BOOK. 


984408 


CONTENTS. 


CMAF. 

MCS 

I.    HOMILRTIC,                  .               , 

1 

II.   CONSTANCE'S  BIRTHDAY,     , 

8 

III.   THE  SICK  CHA.MBER,               , 

29 

SV.  A  SUNDAY  EVENING^               . 

46 

V.  MY  DREAM, 

60 

YI.  THE  NEW  BABY,        . 

64 

YII.    ANOTHER  SUNDAY  EVENING^ 

70 

YiH.  Theodora's  doou, 

S9 

IX.  A  spring  chapier, 

97 

X.  AN  IMPORTANT  LETTES,      , 

>          4>0 

XI.   CONNIE'S  DREAM,      . 

I20 

XII.  THE  JOURNEY, 

.           13a 

Xlil  *  WHAT  WE  DID  WHEN  WE  ARRIVED!,              • 

.        «45 

XIV.   MORE  ABOUT  KILK  HAVEN,  . 

•               •               i 

159 

XV.  THE  OLD  CHURCH,  . 

•               • 

168 

XVI.  CONNIE'S  WATCH-TOWER,     . 

•                • 

188 

XVII.   MY  FIRST  SERMON  IN  THE  SEABOARD  PARISH, 

2()8 

XVIII.  ANOTHER  SUNDAY  EVENING^ 

,        223 

XIX.    NICEBOOTS, 

.        236 

XX.  THE  BLACKSMITH,    ,              ♦ 

►       ^55 

XXI.   THE  LIFE-BOAT,         •               • 

>           20X 

VXU.    MR  PERCIVALSy         •               . 

»       »7I 

ffiil                                                   CONTENTS. 

CHAP. 

PAGB 

XXIII.  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH,                • 

.          289 

XXIV.  AT  THE  FARM,        .               ,               » 

.          310 

XXV.  THE  KEEVE,             ,               •               * 

3»9 

XXVI.   THE  WALK  TO  CHURCH,  •              • 

.       333 

XXVII.  THE  OLD  CASTLE,  .               •               * 

.       343 

XXVIIL  JOE  AND  HIS  TROUBLE,      ,                . 

.       369 

XXIX.  A  SMALL  ADVENTURE,       ,               . 

.        389 

XXX.  THE  HARVEST,        .               .               ♦  * 

.       407 

XXXI.  A  WALK  WITH  MY  WIFE,                 ♦ 

.       423 

XXXIL  OUR  LAST  SHORE-DINNER,              • 

.        436 

XXXIII.  A  PASTORAL  VISIT,               .               , 

.       465 

XXXIV.    THE  ART  OF  N4TURK.         .»               « 

.       476 

XXXV.  THE  SORE  SPOT,      .                •               « 

.       48s 

XXXVI.  THE  GATHERING  STORM*                  • 

i           .        50i 

XXXVII.  THE  GAlHJlAED  fiTORM>   v               i 

.       514 

XXXVIIL  THE  SHIPWRECK,                 •               • 

.       533 

XXXIX.  THE  FUNERAL,       •               •              • 

.        558 

XL.  THE  SERMON,         ♦              ,               • 

•       57« 

XLL  CHANGED  PLANS,                 •               • 

.   ,  59a 

XUL  THE  STUDIO,            •               •              • 

.       603 

SUIL   HOMK  AGAIN.          *              •              • 

•          •       619 

CHAPTER   L 

HOMILETIC. 

|EAR  FRIENDS, — I  am  begmmnga  new!>ook 
like  an  old  sermon;  but,  as  you  know,  I  have 
been  so  accustomed  to  preach  all  my  life, 
that  whatever  I  say  or  write  will  more  or 
less  take  the  shape  of  a  sermon  j  aiid  if  you  had  not  by 
this  time  learned  at  least  to  bear  with  my  oddities,  you 
would  not  have  wanted  any  more  of  my  teaching.  And 
indeed,  I  did  not  think  you  would  want  any  more.  I 
thouglit  I  had  bidden  you  farewell.  But  I  am  seated 
once  again  at  my  writing-table,  to  write  for  you — with  a 
Ptrange  feeling,  however,  that  I  am  in  the  heart  of  some 
curious,  rather  awful  acoustic  contrivance,  by  means  of 
which  the  words  wliich  I  have  a  habit  of  whispering  over 
to  myself  as*  I  write  them,  are  heard  aloud  by  multitudes 
of  people  whom  1  cannot  see  or  hear.  I  will  favour  the 
fancy  that,  by  a  sense  of  your  presence,  I  may  speak  the 
more  truly,  as  man  to  man. 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


But  let  me,  for  a  momeiit,  suppose  that  I  am  your 
grandfather,  and  that  you  have  all  come  to  beg  for  a 
story;  and  that,  therefore,  as  usually  happens  in 
such  cases,  I  am  sitting  with  a  puzzled  face,  indicating 
a  more  puzzled  mind.  I  know  that  there  are  a  great 
many  stories  in  the  holes  and  corners  of  my  bram; 
indeed,  here  is  one,  there  is  one,  peeping  out  at  me 
like  a  rabbit  ;^  but  alas !  like  a  rabbit,  showing  me 
iilmost  ."at  rUte]  same  instant  the  taif-end  of  it,  and 
,  vanishing  with  a.  contemptuous  thud  of  its  hind  feet 
oif  We  *  gfoun^i  \  Jf or  I  must  have  suitable  regard  to 
the  desires  of  my  children.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be 
able  to  give  people  what  they  want,  if  at  the  same 
time  you  can  give  them  what  you  want.  To  give 
people  what  they  want,  would  sometimes  be  to  give 
them  only  dirt  and  poison.  To  give  them  what  you 
want,  might  be  to  set  before  them  something  of 
which  they  could  not  eat  a  mouthful.  What  both 
you  and  I  want,  I  am  willing  to  think,  is  a  dish  of 
good  wholesome  venison.  Now  I  suppose  my  children 
around  me  are  neither  young  enough  nor  old  enough 
to  care  about  a  fairy  tale.  So  that  will  not  do.  What 
they  want  is,  I  believe,  something  that  I  know  about — 
that  has  happened  to  myself.  Well,  I  confess,  that  is 
the  kind  of  thing  I  like  best  to  hear  anybody  talk  to 
me  about  Let  any  one  tell  me  something  that  has 
happened  to  himself,  especially  if  he  will'  give  me  a 
peep  into  how  his  heart  took  it,  as  it  sat  in  its  own  Httle 
room  with  the  closed  door,  and  that  person  will,  so  tell* 
iDg,  absorb  my  attention  :   he  has  something  true  and 


HOMILETIC. 


genuine  and  valuable  to  communicate.  They  are  mostly 
old  people  that  can  do  so.  Not  that  young  people  have 
nothing  happen  to  them,  but  that  only  when  they  grow 
old,  are  they  able  to  see  things  right,  to  disentangle  con- 
fusions, and  judge  righteous  judgment  Things  which 
at  the  time  appeared  insignificant  or  wearisome,  then 
give  out  the  light  that  was  in  them,  show  their  own 
truth,  interest,  and  influence  :  they  are  far  enough  off  to 
be  seen.  It  is  not  when  we  are  nearest  to  anything  that 
we  know  best  what  it  is.  How  I  should  like  to  write  a 
story  for  old  people  !  The  young  are  always  having 
stories  written  for  them.  Why  should  not  the  old  people 
come  in  for  a  share  1  A  story  without  a  young  person  in  it 
at  all !  Nobody  under  fifty  admitted  !  It  could  hardly 
be  a  fairy  tale,  could  it?  Or  a  love  story  either?  I  aia 
not  so  sure  about  that.  The  worst  of  it  would  be,  how- 
ever, that  hardly  a  young  person  would  read  it.  Now 
we  old  people  would  not  like  that.  We  can  read  young 
people's  books,  and  enjoy  them  ;  they  would  not  try  to 
read  old  men's  books  or  old  women's  books;  they 
would  be  so  sure  of  their  being  dry.  My  dear  old 
brothers  and  sisters,  we  know  better,  do  we  not  ?  We 
have  nice  old  jokes,  with  no  end  of  fun  in  them  ;  only 
they  cannot  see  the  fun.  We  have  strange  tales,  that 
we  know  to  be  true,  and  which  look  more  and  more 
marvellous  every  time  we  turn  them  over  again  j 
only  somehow  they  do  not  belong  to  'he  ways  of  this 
year — I  was  going  to  say  weekj—^ru^.  so  the  young 
people  generally  do  not  care  to  hear  them  1  have  had  one 
pale-faced  boy,  to  be  sure,  who  would  sit  it  his  mother'a 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


feet,  and  listen  for  hours  to  what  took  place  before  he 
was  born.   To  him  his  mother's  wedding-gown  was  as  old 
as  Eve's  coat  of  skins.     But  then  he  was  young  enough 
not  yet  to  have  had  a  chance  of  losing  the  childhood 
common  to  the  young  and  the  old.      Ah !     I  should 
like  to  write  for  you,  old  men,  old  women,  to  help  you 
to  read  the  past,  to  help  you  to  look  for  the  future. 
Now  is  your  salvation  nearer  than  when  you  believed ; 
for,  however  your  souls  may  be  at  peace,  however  your 
quietness  and  confidence  may  give  you  strength,  in  the 
decay  of  your  earthly  tabernacle,  in  the  shortening  of  its 
cords,   in  the   weakening   of  its   stakes,   in    the  rents 
through  which  you  see   the   stars,  you  have  yet  your 
share  in  the  cry  of  the  creation  after  the  son  ship.     But 
the  one  thing  I  should  keep  saying  to  you,  my  com- 
panions in  old  age,  would  be,  "  Friends,  let  us  not  grow 
old."     Old  age  is  but  a  mask  ;  let  us  not  call  the  mask 
the  face.     Is  the  acorn  old,  because  its  cup  dries  and 
drops   it   from  its   hold — because  its   skin   has  grown 
brown  and  cracks  in  the  earth  I     Then  only  is  a  man 
growing  old  when  he  ceases  to  have  sympathy  with  the 
young.      That  is  a  sign  that  his  heart  has  begun   to 
wither.     And  that  is  a  dreadful  kind  of  old  age.     The 
heart  needs  never  be  old     Indeed  it  should  always  be 
growing  }  ounger.     Some  of  us  feel  younger,  do  we  not, 
than  when  we  were  nine  or  ten  ?    It  is  not  necessary  to 
be  able  to  play  at  leap-frog  to  t-njoy  the  game.     There 
are  young  creatures  whose  turn  it  is,  and  perhaps  whose 
duty  it  would  be,  to  play  at  leap-frog — if  there  was  any 
necessity  for  putting  the  matter  in  that  light ;  and  for  us, 


HOMILETIC 


5 


we  have  the  privilege,  or  if  we  will  not  accept  the  privi- 
lege, then  I  say  we  have  the  duty,  of  enjoying  their 
leap-frog.  But  if  we  must  withdraw  in  a  measure  from 
sociable  relations  with  our  fellows,  let  it  be  as  the  wise 
creatures  that  creep  aside  and  wrap  themselves  up  and 
lay  themselves  by,  that  their  wings  may  grow  and  put  on 
the  lovely  hues  of  their  coming  resurrection.  Such  a 
withdrawing  is  in  the  name  of  youth.  And  while  it  is 
pleasant — no  one  knows  how  pleasant  except  him  who 
experiences  it — to  sit  apart  and  see  the  drama  of  life 
going  on  around  him,  while  his  feelings  are  calm  and 
free,  his  vision  clear,  and  bis  judgment  righteous,  the  old 
man  must  ever  be  ready,  should  the  sweep  of  action 
catch  him  in  its  skirts,  to  get  on  his  tottering  old  legs, 
and  go  with  brave  heart  to  do  the  work  of  a  true  man, 
none  the  less  true  that  his  hands  treipble,  and  that  he 
would  gladly  return  to  his  chimney-corner.  If  he  is 
never  thus  called  out,  let  him  examine  himself,  lest  he 
should  be  falling  into  the  number  of  those  that  say,  '*  I 
go,  sir,"  and  go  not ;  who  are  content  with  thinking 
beautiful  things  in  an  Atlantis,  Oceana,  Arcadia,  or  what 
it  may  be,  but  put  not  forth  one  of  their  fingers  to  work 
a  salvation  in  the  earth.  Better  than  such  is  the  man 
who,  using  just  weights  and  a  true  balance,  sells  good 
flour,  and  never  has  a  thought  of  his  own. 

I  have  been  talking — to  my  reader  is  iti  or  to  rny 
supposed  group  of  grandchildren  ]  I  remember — to  my 
companions  in  old  age.  It  is  time  I  returned  to  the 
company  who  are  hearing  my  whispers  at  the  other  side 
of  the  great  thundering  gallery.     I  take  leave  of  my  old 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


friends  with  one  word :  We  have  yet  a  work  to  do,  my 
friends  ;  but  a  work  we  shall  never  do  aright  after  ceasing 
to  understand  the  new  generation.  We  are  not  the  men, 
neither  shall  wisdom  die  with  us.  The  Lord  hath  not 
forsaken  his  people  because  the  young  ones  do  not  think 
just  as  the  old  ones  choose.  The  Lord  has  something 
fresh  to  tell  them,  and  is  getting  them  ready  to  receive 
his  message.  When  we  are  out  of  sympathy  with  the 
young,  then  I  think  our  work  in  this  world  is  over.  It 
might  end  more  honourably. 

Now,  readers  in  general,  I  have  had  time  to  consider 
what  to  tell  you  about,  and  how  to  begin.  My  story  will 
be  rather  about  my  family  than  myself  now.  I  was,  as  it 
jvere,  a  little  withdrawn,  even  by  the  time  of  which  I  am 
about  to  write.  I  had  settled  into  a  gray-haired,  quite 
elderly,  yet  active  man — young  still,  in  fact,  to  what  I 
am  now.  But  even  then,  though  my  faith  had  grown 
stronger,'  life  had  grown  sadder,  and  needed  all  my 
stronger  faith ;  for  the  vanishing  of  beloved  faces,  and 
the  trials  of  them  that  are  dear,  will  make  even  those 
that  look  for  a  better  country  both  for  themselves  and 
their  friends,  sad,  though  it  will  be  with  a  preponderance 
of  the  first  meaning  of  the  word  sad^  which  was  setikd, 
thoiightful, 

I  am  again  seated  in  the  little  octagonal  room,  which 
I  have  made  my  study  because  I  like  it  best.  It  is  rather 
a  shame,  for  my  books  cover  over  every  foot  of  the  old 
oak  panelling.  But  they  make  the  room  all  the  pleas- 
ftnter  to  the  eye,  and  after  I  am  gone,  there  is  the  old 
oak,  none  the  worse,  for  any  one  who  prefers  it  to  books. 


HOMILETia 


I  intend  to  use  as  the  central  portion  of  my  present 
narrative  the  history  of  a  year  during  part  of  which  I 
took  charge  of  a  friend's  parish,  while  my  brother-in-law, 
Thomas  Weir,  who  was  and  is  still  my  curate,  took  the 
entire  charge  of  Marshmallows.  What  led  to  this  will 
soon  appear.  I  will  try  to  be  minute  enough  in  my 
narrative  to  make  my  story  interesting,  although  it  will 
cost  me  suffering  to  recall  some  of  the  incidents  I  have 


to  narrate. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Constance's  birthday. 

AS  it  from  observation  of  nature  in  its  assoctar 
tion  with  human  nature,  or  from  artistic 
feeling  alone,  that  Shakspere  so  often  re- 
presents Nature's  mood  as  in  harmony  with 
the  mood  of  the  principal  actors  in  his  drama  1  I  know 
I  have  so  often  found  Nature's  mood  in  harmony  with 
my  own,  even  when  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  forming 
mine,  that  in  looking  back  I  have  wondered  at  the  fact 
There  may,  however,  be  some  self-deception  about  iU 
At  all  events,  on  the  morning  of  my  Constance's 
eighteenth  birthday,  a  lovely  October  day  with  a  golden 
east,  clouds  of  golden  foliage  about  the  ways,  and  an  air 
that  seemed  filled  with  the  ether  of  an  aurum  poiahiie^ 
there  came  yet  an  occasional  llast  of  wind,  which,  with- 
out being  absolutely  cold,  smelt  of  winter,  and  made  one 
draw  one's  shoulders  together  with  the  sense  of  an  un- 
friendly presence.     I  do  not  think  Constance  felt  it  at 


CONSTANCE  S    BIRTHDAY. 


all,  however,  as  she  stood  on  the  steps  in  her  riding- 
habit,  waiting  till  the  horses  made  their  appearance.  It 
had  somehow  grown  into  a  custom  with  us  that  each  of 
the  children,  as  his  or  her  birthday  came  round,  should 
be  king  or  queen  for  that  day,  and,  subject  to  the  veto 
of  father  and  mother,  should  have  everything  his  or  her 
own  way.  Let  me  say  for  them,  however,  that  in  the 
matter  of  choosing  the  dinner,  which  of  course  was  in- 
cluded in  the  royal  prerogative,  I  came  to  see  that  it 
was  almost  invariably  the  favourite  dishes  of  others  of 
the  family  that  were  chosen,  and  not  those  especially 
agreeable  to  the  royal  palate.  Members  of  families  where 
children  have  not  been  taught  from  their  earliest  years 
that  the  great  privilege  of  possession  is  the  right  to 
bestow,  may  regard  this  as  an  improbable  assertion ;  but 
others  will  know  that  it  might  well  enough  be  true,  even 
if  I  did  not  say  that  so  it  was.  But  there  was  always  the 
choice  of  some  individual  treat,  which  was  determined 
solely  by  the  preference  of  the  individual  in  authority. 
Constance  had  chosen  "a  long  ride  with  papa." 

I  suppose  a  parent  may  sometimes  be  right  when  he 
speaks  with  admiration  of  his  own  children.  The  pro- 
bability of  his  being  correct  is  to  be  determined  by  the 
amount  of  capacity  he  has  for  admiring  other  people's 
children.  However  this  may  be  in  my  ow^i  case,  I  ven- 
ture to  assert  that  Constance  did  look  very  lovely  that 
morning.  She  was  fresh  as  the  young  day:  we  were 
early  people — ^breakfast  and  prayers  were  over,  and  it  was 
nine  o'clock  as  she  stood  on  the  steps  and  I  approached 
her  from  the  lawn. 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


**  Oh,  papa !  isn't  it  jolly  ?  **  she  said,  merrily, 
"  Very  jolly  indeed,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  delighted 
to  hear  the  word  from  the  lips  of  my  gentle  daughter. 
She  very  seldom  used  a  slang  word,  and  when  she  did, 
she  used  it  like  a  lady.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  she  was 
like  ?  Ah  !  you  could  not  see  her  as  I  saw  her  that 
morning  if  I  did.  I  will,  however,  try  to  give  you  a 
general  idea,  just  in  order  that  you  and  I  should  not  be 
picturing  to  ourselves  two  very  different  persons  while  1 
speak  of  her. 

She  was  rather  little,  and  so  slight  that  she  looked 
tail  I  have  often  observed  that  the  impression  a 
height  is  an  affair  of  proportion,  and  has  nothing  to 
do  with  feet  and  inches.  She  was  rather  fair  in  com 
plexion,  with  her  mother's  blue  eyes,  and  her  mother'' 
long  dark  wavy  hair.  She  was  generally  playful,  a.nC 
took  greater  liberties  with  me  than  any  of  the  others , 
only  with  her  liberties,  as  with  her  slar.g,  she  knew  in- 
stinctively when,  where,  and  how  much.  For  on  the 
borders  of  her  playfulness  there  seemed  ever  to  hang 
a  fringe  of  thoughtfulness,  as  if  she  felt  that  the  present 
moment  owed  all  its  sparkle  and  brilliance  to  the  eternal 
sunlight.  And  the  appearance  was  not  in  the  least  a 
deceptive  one.  The  eternal  was  not  far  from  her — 
none  the  farther  that  she  enjoyed  life  like  a  bird,  that 
her  laugh  was  merry,  that  her  heart  was  careless,  and 
that  her  voice  rang  through  the  house — a  sweet  soprano 
voice — singing  snatches  of  songs — now  a  street  tune 
she  had  caught  from  a  London  organ,  now  an  air  from 
Handel  or  Mozart — or  that  she  would  sometimes  teas* 


CONSTANCE'S    BIRTHDAY,  II 

her  elder  sister  about  her  solemn  and  anxious  looks  ^ 
for  Wynnie,  the  eldest,  had  to  suffer  for  her  grand- 
mother's sins  against  her  daughter,  and  came  into  the 
world  with  a  troubled  little  heart,  that  was  soon  com- 
pelled to  flee  for  refuge  to  the  rock  that  was  higher  than 
she.  Ah  !  my  Constance  1  But  God  was  good  to  you, 
and  to  us  in  you. 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  Connie  ?  *'  I  said,  and  the  same 
moment  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  reached  us. 

"  Would  it  be  too  far  to  go  to  Addicehead  1 "  she  re- 
turned. 

"It  is  a  long  ride/'  I  answered. 

"  Too  much  for  the  pony  1 " 

"  Oh  dear,  no.  Not  at  all.  I  was  thinking  of  you, 
not  of  the  pony." 

"I'm  quite  as  able  to  ride  as  the  pony  i^  *-o  carry  me, 
papa.  And  I  want  to  get  something  for  Wynnie.  Do 
let  us  go." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  I  said,  and  raised  her  to  the 
saddle — if  I  may  say  raised,  for  no  bird  ever  hopped 
more  lightly  from  one  twig  to  another  than  she  sprung 
from  the  ground  on  her  pony's  back. 

In  a  moment  I  was  beside  her,  and  away  we  rode. 

The  shadows  were  still  long,  the  dew  still  pearly  on 
the  spiders'  webs,  as  we  trotted  out  of  our  own  grounds 
into  a  lane  that  led  away  towards  the  high  road. 
Our  horses  were  fresh  and  the  air  was  exciting  ;  so  we 
turned  from  the  hard  road  into  the  first  suitable 
iield,  and  had  a  gallop  to  begin  with.  Constance 
was  a  good  horsewoman,  for  she  had  been  used  to  th< 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


saddle  longer  than  she  could  remember.  She  was 
now  riding  a  tall  well-bred  pony,  with  plenty  of  life— 
rather  too  much,  I  sometimes  thought,  when  I  was  out 
with  Wynnie ;  but  I  never  thought  so  when  I  was  with 
Constance.  Another  field  or  two  sufficiently  quieted 
both  animals — I  did  not  want  to  have  all  our  time  taken 
up  with  their  frolics — and  then  we  began  to  talk. 

"You  are  getting  quite  a  woman,  now,  Connie,  my 
dear,"  I  said. 

**  Quite  an  old  grannie,  papa,"  she  answered. 

"  Old  enough  to  think  about  what 's  coming  next,"  I 
said  gravely. 

"  Oh,  papa !  And  you  are  always  telling  us  that  we 
must  not  think  about  the  morrow,  or  even  the  next  hour. 
But,  then,  that's  in  the  pulpit,"  she  added,  with  a  sly 
look  up  at  me  from  under  the  drooping  feather  of  her 
pretty  hat. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean,  you  puss,"  I  an- 
swered. "  And  I  don't  say  one  thing  in  the  pulpit  and 
another  out  of  it" 

She  was  at  my  horse's  shoulder  with  a  bound,  as  if 
Spry,  her  pony,  had  been  of  one  mind  and  one  piece 
with  her.  She  was  afraid  she  had  offended  me.  She 
looked  up  into  mine  with  as  anxious  a  face  as  ever  I  saw 
upon  Wynnie. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  papa  !  "  she  said,  when  I  srniled.  "  I 
thought  I  had  been  rude.  I  didn't  mean  it  Indeed  I 
didn't  But  I  do  wish  you  would  make  it  a  little  plainer 
to  me.  I  do  think  about  things  sometimes,  though 
you  would  hardly  believe  it" 


CONSTANCE  S    BIRTHDAY. 


**What  do  you  want  made  plainer,  my  child  I"  J 
asked 

"  When  we're  to  think,  and  when  we'ie  not  to  think, ' 
she  answered. 

I  remember  all  of  this  conversation  because  of  whal 
came  so  soon  after. 

"  If  the  known  duty  of  to-morrow  depends  on  the 
work  of  to-day,"  I  answered — "if  it  cannot  be  done 
right  except  you  think  about  it,  and  lay  your  plans 
for  it,  then  that  thought  is  to-day's  business,  not  to- 
morrow's." 

"Dear  papa,  some  of  your  explanations  are  more 
difficult  than  the  things  themselves.  May  I  be  as  im- 
pertinent as  I  hke  on  my  birthday  ? "  she  asked  suddenly, 
again  looking  up  in  my  face. 

We  were  walking  now,  and  she  had  a  hold  of  my 
horse's  mane,  so  as  to  keep  her  pony  close  up. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  as  impertinent  as  you  like — not  an 
atom  more,  mind." 

"Well,  papa,  I  sometimes  wish  you  wouldn't  explain 
things  so  much.  I  seem  to  understand  you  all  the  time 
you  are  preaching,  but  when  I  try  the  text  afterwards  by 
myself,  I  can't  make  anything  of  it,  and  I  've  forgotten 
ever)'  word  you  said  about  it." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  because  you  have  no  right  to  under 
stand  it." 

"  I  thought  all  Protestants  had  a  right  to  understand 
every  word  of  the  Bible,"  she  returned. 

"  If  they  can,"  I  rejoined.  "  But,  last  Sunday,  for  in- 
•lance,  I  did  not  expect  anybody  there  to  understand  a 


14  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

certain  bit  of  my  sermon,  except  your  mamma  and 
Thomas  \/eir." 

"  How  funny  I     What  part  of  it  was  thati  ** 

"Oh  !  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  You  have  no  right 
to  understand  it  But  most  likely  you  thought  you 
understood  it  perfectly,  and  it  appeared  to  you,  in  con- 
sequence, very  commonplace." 

"  In  consequence  of  what  1 " 

**In  consequence  of  your  thinking  you  understood  it" 

"Oh,  papa  dear!  you're  getting  worse  and  worse. 
lt*s  not  often  I  ask  you  anything — and  on  my  birthday 
too !  It  is  really  too  bad  of  you  to  bewilder  my  poor 
little  brains  in  this  way." 

"I  will  try  to  make  you  see  wkat  I  mean,  my  pet 
No  talk  about  an  idea  that  you  never  had  in  your  head  at 
all,  can  make  you  have  that  idea.  If  you  had  never  seen 
a  horse,  no  description  even,  not  to  say  no  amount  of  re- 
mark, would  bring  the  figure  of  a  horse  before  your  mind. 
Much  more  is  this  the  case  with  truths  that  belong  to  the 
convictions  and  feelings  of  the  heart  Suppose  a  man  had 
never  in  his  life  asked  God  for  anything,  or  thanked 
God  for  anything,  would  his  opinion  as  to  what  David 
meant  in  one  of  his  worshipping  psalms  be  worth  much  1 
The  whole  thing  would  be  beyond  him.  If  you  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  have  care  of  any  kind  upon 
you,  you  cannot  understand  what  our  Lord  means  when 
he  tells  us  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow." 

"  But  indeed,  papa,  I  am  very  full  of  care  sometimes, 
though  not  perhaps  about  to-morrow  precisely.  But, 
tliat  does  not  matter,  does  it?" 


Constance's  birthday.  15 

"Certainly  not  Tell  me  what  you  are  full  of  care 
about,  my  child,  and  perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

"  You  often  say,  papa,  that  half  the  misery  in  this 
world  comes  from  idleness,  and  that  you  do  not  believe 
that  in  a  world  where  God  is  at  work  every  day,  Sundays 
not  excepted,  it  could  have  been  intended  that  women 
any  more  than  men  should  have  nothing  to  do.  Now 
what  am  I  to  dol  What  have  I  been  sent  into  the 
world  for  1  I  don't  see  it ;  and  I  feel  very  useless  and 
wrong  sometimes.** 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  very  much  t^  complain  ot 
you  in  that  respect,  Connie.  You,  and  your  sister  as 
well,  help  me  very  much  in  my  parish.  You  take  much 
off  your  mother's  hands  too.  And  you  do  a  good  deal 
for  the  poor.  You  teach  your  younger  brothers  and 
sister,  and  meantime  you  are  learning  yourselves.** 

*'  Yes,  but  that 's  not  work." 

"  It  is  work.  And  it  is  the  work  that  is  given  you  to 
do  at  present.  And  you  would  do  it  much  better  if  you 
were  to  look  at  it  in  that  light.  Not  that  I  have  anything 
to  complain  of.** 

*'  But  I  don't  want  to  stop  at  home  and  lead  an  easy, 
comfortable  life,  when  there  are  so  many  to  help  every- 
where in  the  world." 

**  Is  there  anything  better  in  doing  something  where 
God  has  not  placed  you,  than  in  doing  it  where  he  hai 
placed  your* 

"  No,  papa.  But  my  sisters  are  quite  enough  for  all 
you  have  for  us  to  do  at  home.  Is  nobody  ever  to  go 
away  to  find  the  work  meant  for  her  t    You  won't  thiuk. 


l6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

dear  papa,  that  I  want  to  get  away  from  home,  will 
you  1 " 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  believe  that  you  are  really  think- 
ing about  duty.  And  now  comes  the  moment  for  con- 
sidering the  passage  to  which  you  began  by  referring  :—  < 
What  God  may  hereafter  require  of  you,  you  must  not 
give  yourself  the  least  trouble  about  Everything  he 
gives  you  to  do,  you  must  do  as  well  as  ever  you  cap, 
and  that  is  the  best  possible  preparation  for  what  he 
may  want  you  to  do  next  If  people  would  but  do  what 
they  have  to  do,  they  would  always  find  themselves 
ready  for  what  came  next  And  I  do  not  believe  that 
those  who  follow  this  rule  are  ever  left  floundering  on 
the  sea-deserted  sands  of  inaction,  unable  to  find  watei 
enough  to  swim  in." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  papa.  That 's  a  little  sermon  all 
to  myself,  and  I  think  I  shall  understand  it  even  when  I 
think  about  it  afterwards.     Now  let 's  have  a  trot" 

*'  There  is  one  thing  more  I  ought  to  speak  about 
though,  Connie.  It  is  not  your  moral  nature  alone  you 
ought  to  cultivate.  You  ought  to  make  yourself  as  worth 
God's  making  as  you  possibly  can.  Now  I  am  a  little 
doubtful  whether  you  keep  up  your  studies  at  all." 

She  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  playfully,  looking  up 
IE  my  face  again. 

**  I  don't  like  dry  things,  papa.* 

**  Nobody  does." 

**  Nobody ! "  slie  exclaimed.  "  How  do  the  grammars 
and  history-books  come  to  be  written  then  V 

In  talking  to  me,  somehow,  the  child  always  put  oo 


CONSTANCE'S    BIRTHDAY.  IJ 

a  more  childish  tone  than  when  she  talked  to  any  one 
else.  I  am  certain  there  was  no  affectation  in  it,  though. 
Indeed,  how  could  she  be  affected  with  her  fault-finding 
old  father  ] 

**  No.  Those  books  are  exceedingly  interesting  to  the 
people  that  make  them.  Dry  things  are  just  things  that 
you  do  not  know  enough  about  to  care  for  them.  And 
all  you  learn  at  school  is  next  to  nothing  to  what  you 
have  to  learn." 

"What  must  I  do,  thenf  she  asked  with  a  sigh. 
"  Must  I  go  all  over  my  French  Grammar  again  ?  Oh 
dear  !     I  do  hate  it  so." 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  something  you  like,  Connie,  in- 
stead of  something  you  don't  like,  I  may  be  able  to  give 
you  advice. — Is  there  nothing  you  are  fond  of?"  I  con- 
tinued, finding  that  she  remained  silent. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  in  particular — that  is,  I  don't 
know  anything  in  the  way  of  school-work  that  I  really 
liked.  I  don't  mean  that  I  didn't  try  to  do  what  I  had 
to  do,  for  I  did.  There  was  just  one  thing  I  liked — the 
poetry  we  had  to  learn  once  a  week.  But  I  suppose  gen- 
tlemen count  that  silly — don't  they  V 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  dear,  I  would  make  that  liking 
of  yours  the  foundation  of  all  your  work.  Besides,  I 
think  poetry  the  grandest  thing  God  has  given  us— 
though  perhaps  you  and  I  might  not  quite  agree  about 
what  poetry  was  poetry  enough  to  be  counted  an  especial 
gift  of  God.     Now,  what  poetry  do  you  like  best  ?" 

•  Mrs  Hemans's,  I  think,  papa." 

«•  Well — very  well — to  begin  with.     *  There  is,'  as  Ml 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


Carlyle  said  to  a  friend  of  mine — *  There  is  a  thin  vein 
of  true  poetrj'  in  Mrs  Hemans/  But  it  is  time  you  had 
done  with  tiiin  things,  however  good  they  may  be. 
Most  people  never  get  beyond  spoon-meat — in  this 
world,  at  least,  and  they  expect  nothing  else  in  the  world 
to  come.  I  must  take  you  in  hand  myself,  and  see  what 
I  can  do  for  you.  It  is  wretched  to  see  capable  enough 
creatures,  all  for  want  of  a  little  guidance,  bursting  with 
admiration  of  what  owes  its  principal  charm  to  novelty 
of  form,  gained  at  the  cost  of  expression  and  sense. 
Not  that  that  applies  to  Mrs  Hemans.  She  is  simple 
enough,  only  diluted  to  a  degree.  But  I  hold  that  what- 
ever mental  food  you  take  should  be  just  a  little  too 
strong  for  you.  That  implies  trouble,  necessitates 
growth,  and  involves  delight." 

*'  I  shan't  mind  how  difficult  it  is  if  you  help  me,  papa. 
But  it  is  anything  but  satisfactory  to  go  groping  on  with- 
out knowing  what  you  are  about." 

I  ou^ht  to  have  mentioned  that  Constance  had  been 
at  school  for  two  years,  and  had  only  been  home  a 
month  that  very  day,  in  oider  to  account  for  my  know- 
ing so  little  about  her  tastes  and  habits  of  mind.  We 
went  on  talking  a  little  more  in  the  same  way,  and  if  I 
were  writing  for  young  people  only,  I  should  be  tempted 
to  go  on  a  little  farther  with  the  account  of  what  we  said 
to  each  other;  for  it  might  help  some  of  them  to  see 
llidt  the  thing  they  like  best  should,  circumstances  and 
conscience  permitting,  be  made  the  centre  from  which 
they  start  to  learn;  that  they  should  go  on  enlarging 
their  knowledge  all  round  from  that  one  point  at  which 


CONSTANCE'S    BIRTHDAY. 


19 


God  intended  them  to  begin.  But  at  length  we  fell  into 
a  silence,  a  very  happy  one  on  nriy  part ;  for  I  was  more 
than  delighted  to  find  that  this  one  too  of  my  children 
was  following  after  the  truth — wanting  to  do  vhat  was 
right,  namely,  to  obey  the  word  of  the  Lord,  whether 
openly  spoken  to  all,  or  to  herself  in  the  voice  of 
her  own  conscience  and  the  light  of  that  understanding 
which  is  the  candle  of  the  Lord.  I  had  often  said  to 
myself  in  past  years,  when  I  had  found  myself  in  the 
company  of  young  ladies  who  announced  their  opinions 
— probably  of  no  deeper  origin  than  the  prejudices  of 
their  nurses — as  if  these  distinguished  them  from  all  the 
world  besides;  who  were  profound  upon  fashion  and 
ignorant  of  grace;  who  had  not  a  notion  whether  a  dress 
was  beautiful,  but  only  whether  it  was  of  the  newest  cut 
— I  had  often  said  to  myself :  "  What  shall  1  do  if  my 
daughters  come  to  talk  and  think  like  that — if  thinking 
it  can  be  called  ] "  but  being  confident  that  instruction 
for  which  the  mind  is  not  prepared  only  lies  in  a  rotting 
heap,  producing  all  kinds  of  mental  evils,  correspondent 
to  the  results  of  successive  loads  of  food  which  the 
system  cannot  assimilate,  my  hope  had  been  to  rouse 
wise  questions  in  the  mmds  of  my  children,  in  place  of 
overwhelming  their  digestions  with  what  could  be  of  no 
instruction  or  edification  without  the  foregoing  appetite. 
Now  my  Constance  had  begun  to  ask  me  questions,  and 
it  made  me  very  happy.  We  had  thus  come  a  long  way 
nearer  to  each  other ;  for  however  near  the  affection  of 
human  animals  may  bnng  them,  there  are  abysses  be- 
tween  soul   and   soul — the   souls  even   of  father  and 


THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 


daughter — over  which  they  must  pass  to  meet  And  I 
do  not  believe  that  any  two  human  beings  alive  know 
yet  what  it  is  to  love  as  love  is  in  the  glorious  will  of  the 
Father  of  lights. 

I  linger  on  with  my  talk,  for  I  shrink  from  what  I  must 
relate. 

We  were  going  at  a  gentb  trot,  silent,  along  a  wood- 
land path — a  brown,  soft,  shady  road,  nearly  five  miles 
from  home,  our  horses  scattering  about  the  withered 
leaves  that  lay  thick  upon  it.  A  good  deal  of  underwood 
and  a  few  large  trees  had  been  latelv  cleared  from  the 
place.  There  were  many  piles  of  faggots  about,  and  a 
great  log  lying  here  and  there  along  the  side  of  the  path. 
One  of  these,  when  a  tree,  had  been  struck  by  lightning, 
and  had  stood  till  the  frosts  and  rains  had  bared  it  of  its 
bark.  Now  it  lay  white  as  a  skeleton  by  the  side  of  the 
Dath,  and  was,  I  think,  the  cause  of  what  followed.  All 
at  once  my  daughter's  pony  sprang  to  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  shying  sideways  ;  unsettled  her  so,  I  presume  ; 
then  rearing  and  plunging,  threw  her  from  the  saddle 
across  one  of  the  logs  of  which  I  have  spoken.  I  was 
by  her  side  in  a  moment;  To  my  horror  she  lay  motion- 
less. Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  when  I  took  her  up  in 
my  arms  she  did  not  open  them.  1  laid  her  on  the  moss, 
and  got  some  water  and  sprinkled  her  face.  Then  she 
revived  a  little,  but  seemed  in  much  pain,  and  all  at  once 
went  off  into  another  faint     I  was  in  terrible  perplexity. 

Presently  a  man  who,  having  been  cutting  faggots  at 
a  little  distance,  had  seen  the  pony  careering  through 
the  wood,  came  up  and  asked  what  be  could  do  to  help 


CONSTANCE'S    BIRTHDAY. 


me.  I  told  him  to  take  my  horse,  whose  bridle  I  had 
thrown  over  the  latch  of  a  gate,  and  ride  to  Oldcastle 
Hall,  and  ask  Mrs  Walton  to  come  with  the  carriage 
as  quickly  as  possible.  **  Tell  her,"  I  said,  "  that  her 
daughter  has  had  a  fall  from  her  pony,  and  is  rather 
shaken.     Ride  as  hard  as  you  can  go." 

The  man  was  off  in  a  moment;  and  there  I  sat 
watching  my  poor  child,  for  what  seemed  to  me  a 
dreadfully  long  time  before  the  carriage  arrived.  She 
had  come  to  herself  quite,  but  complained  of  much  pain 
in  her  back  ;  and,  to  my  distress,  I  found  that  she  could 
not  move  herself  enough  to  make  the  least  change  in  her 
position.  She  evidently  tried  to  keep  up  as  well  as  she 
could  ;  but  her  face  expressed  great  suffering:  it  was 
dreadfully  pale,  and  looked  worn  with  a  month's  illness. 
All  my  fear  was  for  her  spine. 

At  length  I  caught  sight  of  the  carriage  coming 
through  the  wood  as  fast  as  the  road  would  allow,  with 
the  woodman  on  the  box  directing  the  coachman.  It 
drew  up,  and  my  wife  got  out.  She  was  as  pale  as 
Constance,  but  quiet  and  firm,  her  features  composed 
almost  to  determination.  I  had  never  seen  her  look  like 
that  before.  She  asked  no  questions:  there  was  time 
enough  for  that  afterwards.  She  had  brought  plenty 
of  cushions  and  pillows,  and  we  did  all  we  could  to 
make  an  easy  couch  for  the  poor  girl ;  but  she  moaned 
dreadfully  as  we  lifted  her  into  the  carriage.  We  did 
our  best  to  keep  her  from  being  shaken  ;  but  those  few 
miles  were  the  longest  journey  I  ever  made  in  my  life. 

When  we  reached  home  at  length,  we  found  thit  Ethel 


22  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


or,  as  we  commonly  called  her,  using  the  other  end  o^ 
her  name,  Wynnie — for  she  was  named  after  her  mother 
— had  got  a  room  on  the  ground-floor — usually  given  to 
visitors — ready  for  her  sister ;  and  we  were  glad  indeed 
not  to  have  to  carry  her  up  the  stairs.  Before  my  wife 
left,  she  had  sent  the  groom  off  to  Addicehead  for  both 
physician  and  surgeon.  A  young  man  who  had  settled 
at  Marshmallows  as  general  practitioner  a  year  or  two 
before,  was  waiting  for  us  when  we  arrived.  He  helped 
us  to  lay  her  upon  a  mattress  in  the  position  in  which 
she  felt  the  least  pain.  But  why  should  I  linger  over  the 
sorrowful  detail?  All  agreed  that  the  poor  child's  spine 
was  seriously  injured,  and  that  probably  years  of  suffer- 
ing were  before  her.  Everything  was  done  that  could  be 
dono ;  but  she  was  not  moved  from  that  room  for  nine 
months,  during  which,  though  her  pain  certainly  grew 
less  by  degrees,  her  want  of  power  to  move  herself  re- 
mained almost  the  same. 

When  I  had  left  her  at  last  a  httle  composed,  with 
her  mother  seated  by  her  bedside,  I  called  my  other 
two  daughters — Wynnie,  the  eldest,  and  Dorothy,  the 
youngest,  whom  I  found  seated  on  the  floor  outside, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  door  weeping— into  my  study, 
and  said  to  them  : — "  My  darlings,  this  is  very  sad  ;  but 
you  must  remember  that  it  is  God's  will ;  and  as  you 
would  both  try  to  bear  it  cheerfully  if  it  had  fallen  to 
your  lot  to  bear,  you  must  try  to  be  cheerful  even  when 
it  is  your  sister's  part  to  endure." 

"O  papa!  pool  Connie  I "  cried  Dora,  and  bin  si 
into  fresh  tear& 


CONSTANCE'S    BIRTHDAY. 


23 


Wynnie  said  nothing,  but  knelt  down  by  my  knee,  and 
laid  her  cheek  upon  it. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  Constance  said  to  me  just 
before  I  left  the  room  V*  I  asked. 

**  Please  do,  papa." 

••  She  whispered,  *  You  must  try  to  bear  it,  all  of  you, 
as  well  as  you  can.  I  don't  mind  it  very  much,  only  for 
you.'  So,  you  see,  if  you  want  to  make  her  comfortable, 
you  must  not  look  gloomy  and  troubled.  Sick  people 
like  to  see  cheerful  faces  about  them  ;  and  I  am  sure 
Connie  will  not  suffer  nearly  so  much  if  she  finds  that 
she  does  not  make  the  household  gloomy." 

This  I  had  learned  from  being  ill  myself  once  or  twice 
j^mce  my  marriage.  My  vife  never  came  near  me  with 
a  gloomy  face,  and  I  had  found  that  it  was  quite  possible 
to  be  sympathetic  with  |hose  of  my  flock  who  were  ill, 
without  putting  on  a  long  face  when  I  went  to  see  them. 
Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  that  I  could,  or  that  it  was 
desirable  that  I  should,  look  cheerful  when  any  were  in 
great  pain  or  mental  distress.  But  in  ordinary  condi- 
tions of  illness  a  cheerful  countenance  is  as  a  message  of 
all's  we//j  which  may  surely  be  carried  into  a  sick  chamber 
by  the  man  who  believes  that  the  heart  of  a  loving 
Father  is  at  the  centre  of  things,  that  he  is  light  all 
about  the  darkness,  and  that  he  will  not  only  bring  good 
out  of  evil  at  last,  but  will  be  with  the  sufferer  all  the 
time,  making  endurance  possible,  and  pain  tolerable. 
There  are  a  thousand  alleviations  that  people  do  not 
often  think  of,  coming  from  God  himself.  Would  you 
not  say,  for  instance,  that  time  must  pass  very  slowly  in 


24  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

pain  ?  But  have  you  never  observed,  or  has  no  one  evef 
made  the  remark  to  you,  how  strangely  fast,  even  in 
severe  pain,  the  time  passes  after  all  ? 

"We  will  do  all  we  can,  will  we  not,"  I  went  on,  "to 
make  her  as  comfortable  as  possible  1  You,  Dora,  must 
attend  to  your  little  brothers,  that  your  mother  may  not 
have  too  much  to  think  about  now  that  she  will  have 
Connie  to  nurse." 

They  could  not  say  much,  but  they  both  kissed  me, 
and  went  away  leaving  me  to  understand  clearly  enough 
that  they  had  quite  understood  me.  I  then  returned  to 
the  sick  chamber,  where  I  found  that  the  poor  child  had 
fallen  asleep. 

My  wife  and  I  watched  by  her  bed-side  on  alternate 
nights,  until  the  pain  had  so  far  subsided,  and  the  fever 
was  so  far  reduced,  that  we  could  allow  Wynnie  to  take 
a  share  in  the  office.  We  could  not  think  of  giving  her 
over  to  the  care  of  any  but  one  of  ourselves  during  the 
night.  Her  chief  suffering  came  from  its  being  necessary 
that  she  should  keep  nearly  one  position  on  her  back 
because  of  her  spine,  while  the  external  bruise  and  the 
swelling  of  the  muscles  were  in  consequence  so  painful, 
that  it  needed  all  that  mechanical  contrivance  could  do 
to  render  the  position  endurable.  But  these  outward 
conditions  were  greatly  ameliorated  before  many  days 
were  over. 

This  is  a  dreary  beginning  of  my  story,  is  it  not  I 
But  sickness  of  all  kinds  is  such  a  common  thing  in  the 
urorld,  that  it  is  well  sometimes  to  let  our  minds  rest 
upon  it,  lest  it  should  take  us  altogether  at  unawares, 


CONSTANCE  S    BIRTHDAY.  25 

either  in  ourselves  or  our  friends,  whem  it  comes.  If  it 
were  not  a  good  thing  in  the  end,  surely  it  would  not 
be ;  and  perhaps  before  I  have  done  my  readers  will  not 
be  sorry  that  my  tale  began  so  gloomily.  The  sickness 
in  Judeea  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-five  years  ago,  or 
thereabouts,  has  no  small  part  in  the  story  of  him  who 
came  to  put  all  things  under  our  feet.  Praise  be  to  him 
for  evermore  ! 

It  soon  became  evident  to  me  that  that  room  was 
like  a  new  and  more  sacred  heart  to  the  house.  At  first 
it  radiated  gloom  to  the  remotest  comers ;  but  soon  rays 
of  light  began  to  appear  mingling  with  the  gloom.  I 
could  see  that  bits  of  news  were  carried  from  it  to  the 
servants  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  garden,  in  the  stable, 
and  over  the  way  to  the  home-farm.  Even  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  everywhere  over  the  parish,  I  was  received 
more  kindly  and  listened  to  more  willingly,  because  of 
the  trouble  I  and  my  family  were  in ;  while  in  the  house, 
although  we  had  never  been  anything  else  than  a  loving 
family,  it  was  easy  to  discover  that  we  all  drew  more 
closely  together  in  consequence  of  our  common  anxiety. 
Previous  to  this,  it  had  been  no  unusual  thing  to  see 
Wynnie  and  Dora  impatient  with  each  other;  for  Dora 
was  none  the  less  a  wild,  somewhat  lawless  child,  that 
she  was  a  profoundly  affectionate  one.  She  rather  re- 
sembled her  cousin  Judy,  in  fact — whom  she  called 
Aunt  Judy,  and  with  whom  she  was  naturally  a  great 
favourite.  Wynnie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  sedate,  and 
rather  severe — more  severe,  I  must  in  justice  say,  with 
herself  than  witli  any  one  else.    I  had  sometimes  wished. 


26  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


It  is  true,  that  her  mother,  in  regard  to  the  younger 
children,  were  more  Hke  her ;  but  there  I  was  wrong. 
For  one  of  the  great  goods  that  come  of  having  two 
parents,  is  that  the  one  balances  and  rectifies  the  mo- 
tions of  the  other.  No  one  is  good  but  God.  No  one 
holds  the  truth,  or  can  hold  it,  in  one  and  the  same  thought, 
but  God.  Our  human  life  is  often,  at  best,  but  an  oscilla- 
tion between  the  extremes  which  together  make  the  truth  , 
and  it  is  not  a  bad  thing  in  a  family,  that  the  pendulums 
of  father  and  mother  should  differ  in  movement  so  far, 
that  when  the  one  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  swing,  the 
other  should  be  at  the  other,  so  that  they  meet  only  in 
the  point  of  indifference,  in  the  middle ;  that  the  pre- 
dominant tendency  of  the  one  should  not  be  the  pre* 
dominant  tendency  of  the  other.  I  was  a  very  strict 
disciplinarian — too  much  so,  perhaps,  sometimes: 
Ethelwyn,  on  the  other  hand,  was  too  much  inclined, 
I  thought,  to  excuse  everything.  I  was  law,  she  was 
grace.  But  grace  often  yielded  to  law,  and  law  some- 
times yielded  to  grace.  Yet  she  represented  the  higher ; 
for  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  grace,  in  the  glad  perform- 
ance of  the  command  from  love  of  what  is  commanded, 
the  law  is  fulfilled :  the  law  is  a  schoolmaster  to  bring  us 
to  Christ.  I  must  say  this  for  myself,  however,  that, 
although  obedience  was  the  one  thing  I  enforced,  be- 
lieving it  the  one  thing  upon  which  all  family  economy 
primarily  depends,  yet  my  object  always  was  to  set  my 
children  free  from  my  law  as  soon  as  possible;  in  a 
word,  to  help  them  to  become,  as  soon  as  it  might  be, 
a  law  unto  themselves.    Then  they  would  need  no  more 


Constance's  birthday. 


of  mine.  Then  I  would  go  entirely  over  to  the  mother's 
higher  side,  and  become  to  them,  as  much  as  in  me  lay, 
no  longer  law  and  truth,  but  grace  and  truth.  But  to 
return  to  my  children — it  was  soon  evident  not  only  that 
Wynnie  had  grown  more  indulgent  to  Dora's  vagaries, 
but  that  Dora  was  more  submissive  to  Wynnie,  while 
the  younger  children  began  to  obey  their  eldest  sister 
with  a  willing  obedience,  keeping  down  their  effer- 
vescence within  doors,  and  letting  it  off  only  out  of 
doors,  or  in  the  out-houses. 

When  Constance  began  to  recover  a  little,  then  the 
sacredness  of  that  chamber  began  to  show  itself  more 
powerfully,  radiating  on  all  sides  a  yet  stronger  in- 
fluence of  peace  and  goodwill.  It  was  like  a  fountain 
of  gentle  light,  quieting  and  bringing  more  or  less  into 
tune  all  that  came  within  the  circle  of  its  sweetness. 
This  brings  me  to  speak  again  of  my  lovely  child.  For 
surely  a  father  may  speak  thus  of  a  child  of  God.  He 
cannot  regard  his  child  as  his  even  as  a  book  he  has 
written  may  be  his.  A  man's  child  is  his  because  God 
.»as  said  to  hira,  *'Take  this  child  and  nurse  it  for  me." 
She  is  God's  making;  God's  marvellous  invention,  to 
be  tended  and  cared  for,  and  ministered  unto  as  one  of 
his  precious  things ;  a  young  angel,  let  me  say.  who 
needi  the  air  of  this  lower  world  to  make  her  wings 
grow.  And  while  he  regards  her  thus,  he  will  see  all 
other  children  in  the  same  light,  and  will  not  dare  to 
set  up  his  own  against  others  of  God's  brood  with  the 
new-budding  wings.  The  universal  heart  of  truth  will 
thus  rectify,  while  ii  intensifies,  the  individual  feeling 


28  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

towards  one's  own ;  and  the  man  who  is  most  free 
from  poor  partisanship  in  regard  to  his  own  family, 
will  feel  the  most  individual  tenderness  for  the  lovely 
human  creatures  whom  God  has  given  into  his  own 
especial  care  and  responsibility.  Show  me  the  man  who 
is  tender,  reverential,  gracious  towards  the  children  of 
other  men,  and  I  will  show  you  the  man  who  will  love 
and  tend  his  own  best,  to  whose  heart  his  own  will  flee 
for  their  first  refuge  after  God,  when  they  catch  sight  ol 
the  cloud  in  the  wincL 


CHAPTER  ril, 

THE   SICK   CHAMBER. 

N  the  course  of  a  month  there  was  a  good 
deal  more  of  light  in  the  smile  with  which 
my  darling  greeted  me  when  I  entered  her 
room  in  the  morning.  Her  pain  was  greatly 
gone,  but  the  power  of  moving  her  limbs  had  not  yet 
even  begun  to  show  itself. 

Oix  day  she  received  me  with  a  still  happier  smile 
than  I  had  yet  seen  upon  her  face,  put  out  her  thin  white 
hand,  took  mine  and  kissed  it,  and  said,  "  Papa,"  with  a 
lingering  on  the  last  syllable. 
**  What  is  it,  my  pet  I "  I  asked. 
"  I  am  so  happy  !  *' 

**  What  makes  you  so  happy  ? "  I  asked  again. 
•*  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  ;  **  I  haven't  thought 
about  it  yet.     But  everything  looks  so  pleasant  roujid 
me.     Is  it  nearly  winter  yet,  papa]     I've  forgotten  aU 
about  ho«-  the  time  has  been  going,** 


30  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  It  ifi  almost  winter,  my  dear.  There  is  hardly  a  leaf 
left  on  the  trees — ^just  two  or  three  disconsolate  yellow 
ones  that  want  to  get  away  down  to  the  rest.  They  go 
fluttering  and  flutteiing  and  trying  to  break  away,  but 
they  can't. 

"  That  is  just  as  I  felt  a  little  while  ago.  I  wanted  to 
die  and  get  away,  papa ;  for  I  thought  I  should  never  be 
well  again,  and  I  should  be  in  everybody's  way. — I  am 
afraid  I  shall  not  get  well,  after  all,"  she  added,  and  the 
light  clouded  on  her  sweet  face. 

"  Well,  my  darling,  we  are  in  God's  hands.  We  shall 
never  get  tired  of  you,  and  you  must  not  get  tired  of  us. 
Would  you  get  tired  of  nursing  me,  if  I  were  ill  1 " 

*'  O  papa ! "  And  the  tears  began  to  gather  in  her 
eyes. 

*'  Then  you  must  think  we  are  not  able  to  love  so  well 
as  you." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  did  not  think  of  it  thai 
way.  I  will  never  think  so  about  it  again.  I  was  only 
thinking  how  useless  I  was." 

"  There  you  are  quite  mistaken,  my  dear.  No  living 
creature  ever  was  useless  You've  got  plenty  to  do 
there." 

"  But  what  have  I  got  to  do  f  I  don't  feel  able  for  any- 
thing," she  said ;  and  again  the  tears  came  in  her  eyes,  as 
if  I  had  been  telling  her  to  get  up  and  she  could  not. 

**  A  great  deal  of  our  work,"  I  answered,  "  we  do  with- 
out knowing  what  it  is.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  have 
got  to  do  :  you  have  got  to  believe  in  God,*  and  in  every- 
body in  this  house." 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER. 


**  I  do,  I  do.     But  that  is  easy  to  do,"  she  returned. 

"  And  do  you  think  that  the  work  God  gives  us  to  do 
is  never  easy  I  Jesus  says  his  yoke  is  easy,  his  burden  is 
light  People  sometimes  refuse  to  do  God's  work  just 
because  it  is  easy.  This  is,  sometimes,  because  they 
cannot  believe  that  easy  work  is  his  work  ;  but  there  may 
be  a  very  bad  pride  in  it :  it  may  be  because  they  think 
tliat  there  is  little  or  no  honour  to  be  got  in  that  way; 
and  tlierefore  they  despise  it.  Some  again  accept  it  wit^ 
haif  a  heart,  and  do  it  with  half  a  hand.  But,  however 
eSiSy  any  work  may  be,  it  cannot  be  well  done  without 
taking  tiiought  at  out  it.  And  such  people,  instead  ol 
taking  thought  about  their  work,  generally  take  thought 
about  the  morrow,  in  which  no  work  can  be  done  any 
more  than  in  yesterday.  The  Holy  Present  1 — I  think  I 
must  make  one  more  sermon  about  it — although  you, 
Connie,"  I  said,  meaning  it  for  a  little  joke,  **do  think 
that  I  ha  /e  said  too  much  about  it  already." 

"  Papa,  papa  !  do  forgive  me.  This  is  a  judgment  oa 
me  for  talking  to  you  as  I  did  that  dreadful  morning. 
Uut  I  was  so  happy  that  I  was  impertinent.** 

"  Vou  silly  darling  1 "  I  said.  "  A  judgment  I  God 
be  angry  with  you  for  that !  Even  if  it  had  been  any- 
thing wrong,  which  it  was  not,  do  you  think  God  has  no 
patience  ?  No,  Connie.  I  will  tell  you  what  seems  to 
me  much  more  likely.  You  wanted  something  to  do  j 
and  so  God  gave  you  something  to  do." 

"  Lying  in  bed  and  doing  nothing  ! " 

**  Yes.     Just  lying  in  bed,  and  doing  his  will.** 

**  If  I  could  but  feel  that  I  was  doing  his  will  I  * 


J2  T  1 1  E     S  k  A  »  ♦>  A  K  D     P  A  k  I  S  H. 

**  When  you  do  it,  t)ien  you  will  feel  you  are  doing  it." 

**  I  know  you  are  coming  to  something,  papa.  Please 
make  haste,  for  my  back  is  getting  so  bad." 

"  I  've  tired  you,  my  pet.  It  was  very  thoughtless  of 
me.  I  will  tell  you  the  rest  another  time,"  I  said 
rising. 

"  No,  no.  It  will  make  me  much  worse  not  to  heai 
it  all  now." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you.  Be  still,  my  darling,  I  won't  be 
long. — In  the  time  of  the  old  sacrifices,  when  God  so 
kindly  told  his  ignorant  children  to  do  something  for  him 
in  that  way,  poor  people  were  told  to  bring,  not  a  bullock 
or  a  sheep,  for  that  was  more  than  they  could  get,  but  a 
pair  of  turtle-doves,  or  two  young  pigeons.  But  now,  as 
Crashaw  the  poet  says,  '  Ourselves  become  our  own  best 
sacrifice.'  God  wanted  to  teach  people  to  offer  them- 
selves. Now,  you  are  poor,  my  pet,  and  you  cannot 
offer  yourself  in  great  things  done  for  your  fellow-men, 
which  was  the  way  Jesus  did.  But  you  must  remember 
that  the  two  young  pigeons  of  the  poor  were  just  as 
acceptable  to  God  as  the  fat  bullock  of  the  rich.  There- 
fore you  must  say  to  God  something  like  this  : — *  O 
heavenly  Father,  I  have  nothing  to  offer  thee  but  my 
patience.  I  will  bear  tny  will,  and  so  offer  my  will  a 
burnt-offering  unto  thine.  I  will  be  as  useless  as  thou 
pieasest,'  Depend  upon  it,  my  darling,  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  science  about  the  world  and  its  ways,  and  ail  the 
•gnorance  of  God  and  his  greatness,  the  man  or  woman 
who  can  thus  say.  Thy  will  bedone^  with  the  true  heart  of 
giving  up,  is  nearer  the  secret  of  things  than  the  geolo- 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  33 

gist  and  theologian.     And  now,  my  darling,  be  quiet  in 
God's  name." 

She  held  up  her  mouth  to  kiss  me,  but  did  not  speak^ 
and  I  left  her,  and  sent  Dora  to  sit  with  her. 

In  the  evening,  when  I  went  into  her  room  again, 
having  been  out  in  my  parish  all  the  moming,  I  began 
to  unload  my  budget  of  small  events.  Indeed,  we  all 
came  in  like  pelicans  with  stuffed  pouches  to  empty 
them  in  her  room,  as  if  she  had  been  the  only  young 
one  we  had,  and  we  must  cram  her  with  news.  Or, 
rather,  she  was  like  the  queen  of  the  commonwealth 
sending  out  her  messages  into  all  parts,  and  receiving 
messages  in  return.  I  might  call  her  the  brain  of  the 
house  ;  but  I  have  used  similes  enough  for  a  while. 

After  I  had  done  talking,  she  said — 

"  And  you  have  been  to  the  school  too,  papal" 

**  Yes.  I  go  to  the  school  almost  every  day.  I  fancy 
in  such  a  s<  hool  as  ours  the  young  people  get  more 
good  than  they  do  in  church.  You  know  I  had  made 
a  great  change  in  the  Sunday-school  just  before  you 
came  home.** 

"  I  heard  of  that,  papa.  You  won't  let  any  of  the 
little  ones  go  to  school  on  the  Sunday." 

"  No.  It  is  too  nmch  for  them.  And  having  made 
tliis  change,  I  feel  the  necessity  of  being  in  the  school 
inyseh  nearly  every  day,  that  I-may  do  something  direct 
for  the  little  ones" 

"And  you'll  have  to  take  me  up  soon,  as  you  pro- 
mised, you  know,  papa  —  just  before  Sprite  thiew 
Die," 

c 


34  THE    SEAPOARD    PARISH, 

*'  As  soon  as  yoti  like,  my  dear,  after  you  are  able  to 
read  again/' 

"  Oh,  you  ratist  begin  before  that,  please. — You  could 
spare  time  to  read  a  little  to  me,  couldn't  you  ? "  she 
said,  doubtfully,  as  if  she  feared  she  was  asking  too 
much. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  and  I  will  begin  to  think  about 
it  at  once/' 

It  was  in  part  the  result  of  this  wish  of  my  child's  that 
it  became  the  custom  to  gather  in  her  room  on  Sunday 
evenings.  She  was  quite  unable  for  any  kind  of  work 
such  as  she  would  have  had  me  commence  with  her,  but 
I  used  to  take  something  to  read  to  her  every  now  and 
then,  and  always  after  our  early  tea  on  Sundays. 

What  a  thing  it  is  to  have  one  to  speak  and  think 
about  and  try  to  find  out  and  understand,  who  is  always 
and  altogether  and  perfectly  good  !  Such  a  centre  that 
is  for  all  our  thoughts  and  words  and  actions  and  imagi- 
nations? It  is,  indeed,  blessed  to  be  human  beings,  with 
Jesus  Christ  for  the  centre  of  humanity. 

In  the  papers  wherein  I  am  about  to  record  the  chief 
events  of  the  following  years  of  my  life,  1  shall  give  a 
short  account  of  what  passed  at  some  of  these  assemblies 
in  my  child's  room,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  give  my 
friends  something,  if  not  new,  yet  fresh  to  think  about. 
For  God  has  so  made  us  that  every  one  who  thinks  at 
all,  thinks  in  a  way  that  must  be  more  or  le^.s  fresh  to 
every  one  else  who  thinks,  if  he  only  have  tlie  gift  of 
setting  forth  his  thoughts  so  that  we  can  see  what  they 
are. 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  35 


I  hope  my  readers  will  not  be  alarmed  at  this,  and 
suppose  that  I  am  about  to  inflict  long  sermons  upon 
them.  I  am  not.  I  do  hope/-  as  I  say,  to  teach  them 
something ;  but  those  whom  I  succeed  in  so  teaching 
will  share  in  the  delight  it  will  give  me  to  write  about 
what  I  love  most. 

As  far  as  I  can  remember,  I  will  tell  how  this  Sunday- 
evening  class  began.  I  was  sitting  by  Constance's  bed. 
The  fire  was  burning  brightly,  and  the  twilight  had 
deepened  so  nearly  into  night  that  it  was  reflected  back 
from  the  window,  for  the  curtains  had  not  yet  been 
drawn.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  but  that  of  the 
fire. 

Now  Constance  was  in  the  way  of  asking  often  what 
kind  of  day  or  night  it  was,  for  there  never  was  a  girl 
more  a  child  of  nature  than  she.  Her  heart  seemed  to 
respond  at  once  to  any  and  every  mood  of  the  world 
around  her.  To  her  the  condition  of  air,  earth,  and  sky 
was  news,  and  news  of  poetic  interest  too.  "  What  is 
it  like  1 "  she  would  often  say,  without  any  more  defi- 
nite shaping  of  the  question.  This  same  evening  she 
said, — 

"What  is  it  like,  papa?** 

"It  is  growing  dark,"  I  answered,  "as  you  can  see. 
It  is  a  still  evening,  and  what  they  call  a  black  frost. 
The  trees  are  standing  as  still  as  if  they  were  carved  out 
of  stone,  and  would  snap  off".everywhere  if  the  wind  were 
to  blow.  The  ground  is  dark,  and  as  hard  as  if  it  were 
of  cast  iron.  A  gloomy  night  rather,  my  dear.  It  looks 
IS  if  there  were  something  upon  its  mind  that  ma(fe  il 


36  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

sullenly  thoughtful ;  but  the  stars  are  coming  out  one 
after  another  overhead,  and  the  sky  will  be  all  awake 
soon.  A  strange  thing  tht  life  that  goes  on  all  night,  is 
it  not?  The  life  of  owlets,  and  mice,  and  beasts  of 
prey,  and  bats,  and  stars,"  I  said,  with  no  very  cate- 
gorical arrangement,  "  and  dreams,  and  flowers  that  don't 
go  to  sleep  like  the  rest,  but  send  out  their  scent  all 
night  long.  Only  those  are  gone  now.  There  are  no 
scents  abroad,  not  even  of  the  earth  in  such  a  frost  as 
this." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  looks  sometimes,  papa,  as  if  God 
turned  his  back  on  the  world,  or  went  farther  away  from 
it  for  a  while  1 " 

**  Tell  me  a  little  more  what  you  mean,  Connie.** 
"  Well,  this  night  now,  this  dark,  frozen,  hfeless  night, 
which  you  have  been  describing  to  me,  isA  't  like  God  at 
all— is  it  1 " 

"  No,  it  is  not     I  sec  what  you  mean  bow." 
"  It  is  just  as  if  he  had  gone  away  and  said,  *  Now 
you  shall  see  what  you  can  do  without  me.' " 

**  Something  like  that.  But  do  you  know  that  English 
people — at  least  I  think  so — enjoy  the  changeful  weather 
of  their  country  much  more  upon  the  whole  than  those 
who  have  fine  weather  constantly?  You  see  it  is  not 
enough  to  satisfy  God's  goodness  that  he  should  give  us 
all  things  richly  to  enjoy,  but  he  must  make  us  able  to 
enjoy  them  as  richly  as  he  gives  them.  He  has  to  con- 
sider not  only  the  gift,  but  the  receiver  of  the  gift.  He 
has  to  make  us  able  to  take  the  gift  and  make  it  our  own, 
as  well  as  to  give  us  the  gift.    In  fact,  it  is  not  real  giving^ 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  37 

with  the  full,  that  is,  the  divine,  meaning  of  giving, 
without  it  He  has  to  give  us  to  the  gift  as  well  as  give 
the  gift  to  us.  Now  for  this,  a  break,  an  interruption  is 
good,  is  invaluable,  for  then  we  begin  to  think  about  the 
thing,  and  do  something  in  the  matter  ourselves.  The 
wonder  of  God's  teaching  is  that,  in  great  part,  he 
makes  us  not  merely  learn,  but  teach  ourselves,  and  that 
is  far  grander  than  if  he  only  made  our  minds  as  he 
makes  our  bodies." 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,  papa.  For  since  I  have 
been  ill,  you  would  wonder,  if  you  could  see  into  me, 
how  even  what  you  tell  me  about  the  world  out  of  doors 
gives  me  more  pleasure  than  I  think  I  ever  had  when  I 
could  go  about  it  just  as  I  liked." 

"  It  wouldn't  do  that,  though,  you  know,  it  you  hadn't 
had  the  other  first.  The  pleasure  you  have  comes  as 
much  from  your  memory  as  from  my  news." 

"I  see  that,  papa." 

"  Now  can  you  tell  me  anything  in  history  that  confirms 
what  I  have  been  saying?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  history,  papa.  The 
only  thing  that  comes  into  my  head  is  what  you  were 
saying  yourself  the  other  day  about  Milton's  blindness." 

"  Ah,  yes.  I  had  not  thought  of  that  Do  you  know, 
I  do  believe  that  God  wanted  a  grand  poem  from  that 
man,  and  therefore  blinded  him  that  he  might  be  able 
to  write  it  But  he  had  first  trained  him  tp  to  the  point 
— ^given  him  thirty  years  in  which  he  had  not  to  provide 
the  bread  of  a  single  day,  only  to  learn  and  think  ;  then 
Bet  him  to  teach  boys;  then  placed  him  at  Cromwell's 


j8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

side,  in  the  midst  of  the  tumultuous  movement  of  public 
affairs,  into  which  the  late  student  entered  with  all  his 
heart  and  soul ;  and  then  last  of  all  he  cast  the  veil  of 
a  divine  darkness  over  him,  sent  him  into  a  chamber  far 
more  retired  than  that  in  which  he  laboured  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  set  him  like  the  nightingale  to  sing  darkling. 
The  blackness  about  him  was  just  the  great  canvas 
which  God  gave  him  to  cover  with  forms  of  light  and 
music.  Deep  wells  of  memory  burst  upwards  from 
below  ;  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened  from  above ; 
from  both  lushed  the  deluge  of  song  which  flooded  his 
soul,  and  which  he  has  poured  out  in  a  great  river 
to  us." 

"  It  was  rather  hard  for  poor  Milton,  though,  wasn't 
it,  papa  ?  '* 

"  Wait  till  he  says  so,  my  dear.  We  are  sometimes 
too  ready  with  our  sympathy,  and  think  things  a  great 
deal  worse  than  those  do  who  have  to  undergo  them. 
Who  would  not  be  glad  to  be  struck  with  suc/i  bUndness 
as  Milton's  1" 

"  Those  that  do  not  care  about  his  poetry,  papa,"  an 
swered  Constance,  with  a  deprecatory  smile. 

"  Well  said,  my  Connie.  And  to  such  it  never  can 
come.  But,  if  it  please  God,  you  shall  love  Milton  before 
you  are  about  again.  You  can't  love  one  you  know 
nothing  about.** 

**  I  have  tried  to  read  him  a  little.* 

**  Yes,  I  daresay.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  not  liking 
ft  man  whose  face  you  had  never  seen,  because  you  did 
not  approve  of  the  back  of  his  coat.    But  you  and  Miltoo 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  39 

together  have  led  me  away  from  a  far  grander  instance  of 
what  we  had  been  talking  about.    Are  you  tired,  darling?** 

**  Not  the  least,  papa.  You  don't  oind  what  I  said 
about  Milton  ? " 

**  Not  at  all,  my  dear.  I  like  your  honesty.  But  I 
should  mind  very  much  if  you  thought,  with  your 
ignorance  of  Milton,  that  your  judgment  of  him  was 
more  likely  to  be  right  than  mine,  with  my  knowledge  ui 
him." 

"  O  papa !  I  am  only  sorry  that  1  am  not  capable 
of  appreciating  him." 

"There  you  are  wrong  again.  I  think  you  are  quite 
capable  of  appreciating  him.  But  you  cannot  appreciate 
what  you  have  never  seen.  You  think  of  him  as  dry, 
and  think  you  ought  to  be  able  to  like  dry  things.  Now 
he  is  not  dry,  and  you  ought  not  to  be  able  to  Hke  dry 
things.  You  have  a  figure  before  you  in  your  fancy, 
which  is  dry,  and  which  you  call  Milton.  But  it  is  no 
more  Milton  than  your  dull-faced  Dutch  doll,  which  you 
called  after  her,  was  your  merry  Aunt  Judy.  But  here 
comes  your  mamma ;  and  I  haven't  said  what  I  wanted 
to  say  yet" 

"  But  surely,  husband,  you  can  say  it  all  the  same,* 
said  my  wife.     "  I  will  go  away  if  you  can't." 

"  I  can  say  it  all  the  better,  my  love.  Come  and  sit 
down  here  beside  me.    I  was  trying  to  show  Connie'^ 

**  Yow  did  show  me,  papa." 

**  Well  I  was  showing  Connie  that  a  gift  has  some- 
times to  be  taken  away  again  before  we  can  know  what 
it  is  wortl\  and  so  receive  it  right." 


40  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

-  —  * 

Ethelwyn  sighed.  She  was  always  more  open  to  the 
mournful  than  the  glad.  Her  heart  had  been  dreadfully 
wrung  in  her  youth. 

"  And  I  was  going  on  to  give  her  the  greatest  instance 
of  it  in  human  history.  As  long  as  our  Lord  was  with 
his  disciples,  they  could  not  see  him  right:  he  was 
too  near  them.  Too  much  light,  too  many  words,  too 
much  revelation,  blinds  or  stupifies.  The  Lord  had  been 
with  them  long  enough.  They  loved  him  dearly,  and 
yet  often  forgot  his  words  almost  as  soon  as  he  said 
them.  He  could  not  get  it  into  them,  for  instance,  that 
he  had  not  come  to  be  a  king.  Whatever  he  said,  they 
shaped  it  over  again  after  their  own  fancy;  and  their  minds 
were  so  full  of  their  own  worldly  notions  of  grandeur  and 
command,  that  they  could  not  receive  into  their  souls 
tlie  gift  of  God  present  before  their  eyes.  Therefore  he 
was  taken  away,  that  his  Spirit,  which  was  more  him- 
self than  his  bodily  presence,  might  come  into  them — • 
that  they  might  receive  the  gift  of  God  into  their  inner- 
most being.  After  he  had  gone  out  of  their  sight,  and 
they  might  look  all  around  and  down  in  the  grave  and 
up  in  the  air,  and  not  see  him  anywhere — when  they 
thouglit  they  had  lost  him,  he  began  to  come  to  them 
again  from  the  other  side — fioni  the  inside.  They  found 
that  the  image  of  him  which  his  presence  with  them 
had  printed  in  light  upon  their  souls,  began  to  revive  in 
the  daik  of  his  absence;  and  not  that  only,  but  that  in 
looking  at  it  without  the  overwhelming  of  his  bodily 
presence,  lines  and  forms  and  meanings  began  to  dawn 
out  of  it  which  they  had  never  seen  before.     And  hia 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  41 

words  came  back  to  them,  no  longer  as  they  had  received 
them,  but  as  he  meant  them.  The  spirit  of  Christ  filhng 
their  hearts  and  giving  them  new  power,  made  them  re- 
member, by  making  them  able  to  understand,  all  that  he 
had  said  to  them.  They  were  then  always  saying  to  each 
other,  *You  remember  how;*  whereas  before,  they  had 
been  always  staring  at  each  other  with  astonishment  and 
something  very  near  incredulity,  while  he  spoke  to  them. 
So  that  after  he  had  gone  away,  he  was  really  nearer 
to  them  than  he  had  been  before.  The  meaning  of 
anything  is  more  than  its  visible  presence.  There  is  a 
soul  in  everything,  and  that  soul  is  the  meaning  of  it. 
The  soul  of  the  world  and  all  its  beauty  has  come  nearer 
to  you,  my  dear,  just  because  you  are  separated  fiom  it 
for  a  time." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  papa.  I  do  like  to  get  a  little  ser- 
mon all  to  myself  now  and  then.  That  is  another  good 
of  being  ill." 

**  You  don't  mean  me  to  have  a  share  in  it,  then,  Connie, 
do  you  ?"  said  my  wife,  smiling  at  her  daughter's  pleasure. 

"  Oh,  mamma !  I  should  have  thought  you  knew  ail 
pai)a  had  got  to  say  by  this  time.  I  daresay  he  has  given 
you  a  thousand  sermons  all  to  yourr.elf " 

"Then  you  suppose,  Connie,  that  I  came  into  tl}e 
world  with  just  a  boxful  of  sermons,  and  after  I  had 
taken  them  all  out  there  were  no  mjre.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  think  1  should  not  have  a  good  many  new  things 
to  say  by  this  time  next  year." 

"  Well,  papa,  I  wish  I  could  be  sure  of  knov  in^  more 
when  next  year  comes.  ' 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


"  Most  people  do  learn,  whether  they  will  or  not 
But  the  kind  of  learning  is  very  different  in  the  two 
cases." 

*'  But  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question,  papa :  do  you 
think  that  we  should  not  know  Jesus  better  now  if 
he  were  to  come  and  let  us  see  him — as  he  came  to 
the  disciples  so  long,  long  ago  t  I  wish  it  were  not  so 
long  ago." 

"As  to  the  time,  it  makes  no  difference  whether  it 
was  last  year  or  two  thousand  years  ago.  The  whole 
question  is  how  much  we  understand,  and  understand- 
ing, obey  him.  And  I  do  not  think  we  should  be  any 
nearer  that  if  he  came  amongst  us  bodily  again.  If  we 
should,  he  would  come.  I  believe  we  should  be  further 
off  it." 

"Do  you  think,  then,"  said  Connie,  in  an  almost 
despairing  tone,  as  if  I  wei\  the  prophet  of  great  evil, 
**that  we  shall  never,  never,  never  see  himl" 

"  That  is  ^uiU  another  thing,  my  Connie.  That  is 
the  heart  of  my  hopes  by  day  and  my  dreams* by 
night.  To  behold  the  face  of  Jesus  seems  to  me  the 
one  thing  to  be  desired.  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  to 
be  prayed  for;  but  1  think  it  will  be  given  us  as  the 
great  bounty  of  God,  so  soon  as  ever  we  are  capable  ot 
it  That  sight  of  the  face  of  Jesus  is,  I  think,  what 
is  meant  by  his  glorious  appearing,  but  it  will  come 
as  a  consequence  of  his  spirit  in  us,  not  as  a  cause  of 
that  spirit  in  us.  The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  God. 
The  seeing  of  him  will  be  the  sign  that  we  are  like 
hiirii  fur  only  by  beiug  like  him  can  we  see  him  as 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER.  43 

he  is.  All  the  time  that  he  was  with  them,  the  dis- 
ciples never  saw  him  as  he  was.  You  must  under- 
stand a  man  before  you  can  see  and  read  his  face 
aright;  and  as  the  disciples  did  not  understand  our 
Lord's  heart,  they  could  neither  see  nor  read  his  face 
aright  But  when  we  shall  be  fit  to  look  that  man  in  the 
face,  God  only  knows." 

"  Then  do  you  think,  papa,  .that  we,  who  have  never 
seen  him,  could  know  him  better  than  the  disciples! 
I  don't  mean,  of  course,  better  than  they  knew  him  after 
he  was  taken  away  from  them,  but  better  than  they  knew 
him  while  he  was  still  with  them  ]  ** 

"  Certainly  I  do,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  papa!  Is  it  possible!  Why  don't  we  all 
then?" 

"Because  we  won't  take  the  trouble;  that  is  the 
reason." 

"Oh,  what  a  grand  thing  to  think!  That  would 
be  worth  living — worth  being  ill  for.  But  how?  how! 
Can't  you  help  mel  Mayn't  one  human  being  help 
another  1 " 

"It  is  the  highest  duty  one  human  being  owes  to 
another.  But  whoever  wants  to  learn  must  pray,  and 
think,  and,  above  all,  obey — that  is  simply,  do  what 
Jesus  scys." 

There  followed  a  little  silence,  and  I  could  hear  my 
child  sobbing.     And  the  tears  stood  in  my  wife's  eyes- 
tears  of  gladness  to  hear  her  daughter's  sobs. 

"  I  will  try,  papa,"  Constance  said  at  last  "  But  you 
wiL  help  met** 


44  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**That  I  will,  my  love.  I  will  kelp  you  in  the  best 
way  I  know ;  by  trying  to  tell  you  what  I  have  heard  and 
learned  about  him — heard  and  learned  of  the  Father,  I 
hope  and  trust.  It  is  coming  near  to  the  time  when  he 
was  born ; — ^but  I  have  spoken  quite  as  long  as  you  are 
able  to  bear  to-night.** 

"  No,  no,  papa.     Do  go  on." 

**No,  my  dear;  no  more  to-night.  That  would  be 
to  offend  against  the  very  truth  I  have  been  trying  to 
set  forth  to  you.  But  next  Sunday — ^you  have  plenty 
to  think  about  till  then — I  will  talk  to  you  about  the 
baby  Jesus;  and  perhaps  I  may  find  something  more 
to  help  you  by  that  time,  besides  what  I  have  got  to 
say  now." 

"  But,"  said  my  wife,  "  don't  you  think,  Connie,  this  is 
too  good  to  keep  all  to  ourselves?  Don't  you  think  we 
ought  to  have  Wynnie  and  Dora  in  1 " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mamma.  Do  let  us  have  them  in.  And 
Harry  and  Charlie  too.** 

**  I  fear  they  are  rather  young  yet,**  I  said.  "  Perhaps 
it  might  do  them  harm.** 

"  It  would  be  all  the  better  for  us  to  have  them  any- 
how,*' said  Ethelwyn  smiHng. 

**  How  do  you  mean,  my  dearl* 

"  Be(^.ause  you  will  say  things  more  simply  if  you  have 
them  by  you.  Besides,  you  always  say  such  tilings  to 
children  as  delight  grown  people,  though  they  could 
never  get  them  out  of  you.'* 

It  was  a  wife's  speech,  reader.  Forgive  rae  for  writ* 
Ing  iU 


THE    SICK    CHAMBER  4$ 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  mind  them  coming  in, 
but  I  don't  promise  to  say  anything  directly  to  them. 
And  you  must  let  them  go  away  the  moment  they 
wish  it." 

*'  Certainly,"  answered  my  wife ;  and  so  the  mattei 
Kras  arranged 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A  SUNDAY   EVENING. 

HEN  I  went  in  to  see  Constance  the  next 
Sunday  morning  before  going  to  church,  I 
knew  by  Her  face  that  she  was  expecting  the 
evening.  I  took  care  to  get  into  no  conver- 
sation with  her  during  the  day,  that  she  might  be  quite 
fresh.  In  the  evening,  when  I  went  into  her  room  again 
with  my  bible  in  my  hand,  I  found  all  our  little  company 
assembled.  There  was  a  glorious  fire,  for  it  was  very 
cold,  and  the  little  ones  were  seated  on  the  rug  before 
it,  one  on  each  side  of  their  mother ;  Wynnie  sat  by  the 
further  side  of  the  bed,  for  she  always  avoided  any  place 
or  thing  she  thought  another  might  like  ;  and  Dora  sat 
by  the  further  chimney-corner,  leaving  the  space  between 
the  fire  and  my  chair  open  that  I  might  see  and  share 
tlie  glow. 

"  The  wind  is  very  high,  papa,**  said  Constance,  as  I 
seated  myself  beside  her. 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING.  47 

"Yes,  my  dear.  It  has  been  blowing  ail  day,  and 
since  sundown  it  has  blown  harder.  Do  you  like  the 
wind,  Connie  f* 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  like  it.  When  it  roars  like  that  in 
the  chimneys,  and  shakes  the  windows  with  a  great  rush 
as  if  it  would  get  into  the  house  and  tear  us  to  pieces, 
and  then  goes  moaning  away  into  the  woods,  and  gmm- 
bles  about  in  them  till  it  grows  savage  again,  and  rushes 
up  at  us  with  fresh  fury,  I  am  afraid  I  delight  in  it  1 
feel  so  safe  in  the  very  jaws  of  danger.** 

"Why,  you  are  quite  poetic,  Connie  !"  said  Wynnie. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Wynnie.  Mind  I  'm  an  invahi!, 
and  I  can't  bear  to  be  laughed  at,"  returned  Connie,  hall 
laughing  herself,  and  a  little  more  than  a  quarter  crying. 

Wynnie  rose  and  kissed  her,  whispered  something  to 
her  which  made  her  laugh  outright,  and  then  sat  down 
again. 

"  But  tell  me,  Connie,*'  I  said,  **  why  you  are  afraid 
you  enjoy  hearing  the  win^  about  the  house.'* 

"  Because  it  must  be  so  dreadful  for  those  that  are  out 
in  it.". 

"  Perhaps  not  quite  so  bad  as  we  think.  You  must 
not  suppose  that  God  has  forgotten  them,  or  cares  less 
for  them  tlian  for  you  because  they  are  out  in  the  wind." 

"  But  if  we  thought  like  that,  papa,"  said  Wynnie, 
•*  shouldn't  we  come  to  feel  that  tlieir  sufferings  were 
none  of  our  business  I " 

"  If  our  benevolence  rests  on  the  belief  that  God  is 
less  loving  than  we,  it  will  come  to  a  bad  end  somehow 
before  longj  WynniCi" 


4^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


"  Of  course,  I  could  not  think  that,"  she  returned. 

"Then  your  kindness  would  be  such  that  you  dared 
not,  in  God's  name,  think  hopefully  for  those  you  could 
rot  help,  lest  you  should,  believing  in  his  kindness,  cease 
to  help  those  whom  you  could  help  !  Either  God  in- 
tended that  there  should  be  poverty  and  suffering,  or  he 
did  not.  If  he  did  not  intend  it — for  similar  reasons  to 
those  for  which  he  allows  all  sorts  of  evils — then  there  is 
nothing  between  but  that  we  should  sell  everything  that 
we  have  and  give  it  away  to  the  j)Oor/' 

"  Then  why  don't  we  f  said  Wynnie,  looking  truth  it- 
self in  my  face. 

"  Because  that  is  not  God's  way,  and  we  should  do 
no  end  of  harm  by  so  doing.  \Vq  should  make  so  many 
more  of  those  who  will  not  help  themselves,  who  will 
not  be  set  free  from  themselves  by  rising  above  them- 
selves. We  are  not  to  gratify  our  own  benevolence  at 
the  expense  of  its  objec*^ — not  to  save  our  own  souls  as 
we  fancy,  by  putting  other  souls  into  more  danger  than 
God  meant  for  them." 

"  It  sounds  hard  doctrine  from  your  lips,  papa^"  said 
Wynnie.   . 

"  ]\Iany  things  will  look  hard  in  so  many  words,  which 
yet  will  be  found  kindness  itself,  when  they  are  inter- 
preted by  a  higher  theory.  If  the  one  thing  is  to  .et 
people  have  everything  they  waut,  then  of  course  every 
one  ought  to  be  rich.  1  have  no  doubt  such  a  man  as 
we  were  reading  of  in  the  papers  the  other  day,  who 
saw  his  servant  girl  drown  without  making  the  least 
effort  to  save  her.  and  then  bemoaned  the  loss  of  her 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING.  49 


labour  for  the  coming  harvest,  thinking  himself  ill  used 
in  her  death,  would  hug  his  own  selfishness  on  hearing 
my  words,  and  say,  '  All  right,  parson  !  Every  man  for 
himself  C  I  made  my  own  money,  and  they  may  make 
theirs  !'  Vou  know  that  is  not  exactly  the  way  I  should 
think  01  act  with  regard  to  my  neighbour.  But  if  it  were 
only  that  I  have  seen  such  noble  characters  cast  in  the 
mould  of  poverty,  I  should  be  compelled  to  regard 
j)Overty  as  one  of  God's  powers  in  the  world  for  raising 
the  children  of  the  kingdom,  and  to  believe  that  it  was 
not  because  it  could  not  be  helped  that  our  Lord  said, 
*The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you.*  But  what  I  wanted 
to  say  was,  that  there  can  be  no  reason  why  Connie 
should  not  enjoy  what  God  has  given  her,  although  he 
has  not  thought  fit  to  give  as  much  to  everybody:  and, 
above  all,  that  we  shall  not  help  those  right  whom  God 
gives  us  to  help,  if  we  do  not  believe  that  God  is  caring 
for  every  one  of  them  as  much  as  he  is  caring  for  every 
one  of  us.  There  was  once  a  baby  born  in  a  stable,  be- 
cause his  poor  mother  could  get  no  room  in  a  decent 
house.  Where  she  lay,  I  can  hardly  think.  They  must 
have  made  a  bed  of  hay  and  straw  for  her  in  the  stall, 
for  we  know  the  baby's  cradle  was  the  manger.  Had 
God  forsaken  them  1  or  would  they  not  have  been  more 
tom/or/ad/e,  if  that  was  the  main  thing,  somewhere  else  1 
Ah !  if  the  disciples,  who  were  being  born  about  the 
game  time  of  fisher-fathers  and  cottage-mothers,  to  get 
ready  for  him  to  call  and  teach  by  the  time  he  should  be 
thirty  )ears  of  age — if  they  had  only  been  old  enough, 
and  had  known  that  he  was  coming — would  they  not 


so  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

have  got  everything  ready  for  him  1  They  would  have 
clubbed  their  little  savings  together,  and  worked  day 
and  night,  and  some  rich  women  would  have  helped 
them,  and  they  would  have  dressed  the  baby  in  fine  linen, 
and  got  him  the  richest  room  their  money  would  get,  an  J 
they  would  have  made  the  gold  that  the  wise  men  brought 
into  a  crown  for  his  little  head,  and  would  have  burnt 
the  frankincense  before  him.  And  so  our  little  manger- 
baby  would  have  been  taken  away  from  us.  No  more  the 
stable-born  Saviour — no  more  the  poor  Son  of  God  born 
for  us  all,  as  strong,  as  noble,  as  loving,  as  worshipful,  as 
beautiful  as  he  was  poor!  And  we  should  not  have 
learned  that  God  does  not  care  for  money ;  that  if  he 
does  not  give  more  of  it,  it  is  not  that  it  is  scarce  with 
nim,  or  that  he  is  unkind,  but  that  he  does  not  value 
it  himself  And  if  he  sent  his  own  Son  to  be  not 
merely  brought  up  in  the  house  of  the  carpenter  of  a 
little  village,  but  to  be  born  in  the  stable  of  a  village  inn, 
we  need  not  suppose,  because  a  man  sleeps  under  a  hay- 
stack, and  is  put  in  prison  for  it  next  day,  that  God  does 
not  care  for  him." 
"  But  why  did  Jesus  come  so  poor,  papal" 
"  That  he  might  be  just  a  human  baby ;  that  he 
might  not  be  distinguished  by  this  or  by  that  accident 
of  birth ;  that  he  might  have  nothing  but  a  mother's 
love  to  welcome  him,  and  so  belong  to  everybody ;  that 
from  the  first  he  might  show  that  the  kingdom  of  God 
and  the  favour  of  God  lie  not  in  these  external  things  at 
all — that  the  poorest  little  one,  born  in  the  meanest 
dwelling,  or  in  none  at  all,  is  as  much  God's  own  and 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING. 


God's  care  as  if  he  came  in  a  royal  chamber  with  colouf 
and  shine  all  about  him.  Had  Jesus  come  amongst  the 
rich,  riches  would  have  been  more  worshipped  than  ever. 
See  hoA  so  many  that  count  themselves  good  Christians 
honour  possession  and  family  and  social  rank,  and  I 
doubt  hardly  get  rid  of  them  when  they  are  all  swept 
away  from  them.  The  furthest  most  of  such  reach  is  to 
count  Jesus  an  exception,  and  therefore  not  despise  him. 
See  how,  even  in  the  services  of  the  church,  as  they  call 
them,  they  will  accumulate  gorgeousness  and  cost  Had 
I  my  way,  though  I  will  never  seek  to  rouse  men's 
thoughts  about  such  external  things,  I  would  never  have 
any  vessel  used  in  the  eucharist  but  wooden  platters 
and  wooden  cups." 

"  But  are  we  not  to  serve  him  with  our  best  ? "  said 
my  wife. 

"  Yes,  with  our  ver}'  hearts  and  souls,  with  our  wills^ 
with  our  absolute  being.  But  all  external  things  should 
be  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  his  revelation.  And 
if  God  chose  that  his  son  should  visit  the  earth  in 
homely  fashion,  in  homely  fashion  likewise  should  be 
everything  that  enforces  and  commemorates  that  revela- 
tion. All  church-forms  should  be  on  the  other  side 
from  show  and  expense.  Let  the  money  go  to  build 
decent  houses  for  God's  poor,  not  to  give  "hem  his 
holy  bread  and  wine  out  of  silver  and  gold  and  precious 
stones — stealing  from  the  significance  of  the  cunte?it  by 
the  meretricious  grandeur  of  the  continent.  I  would  send 
all  the  church-plate  to  fight  the  devil  with  his  own 
weapons  in  our  overcrowded  cities,  and  in  our  village! 


5«  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

where  the  husbandmen  are  housed  hke  swine,  by  giving 
them  room  to  be  clean,  and  decent  air  fr^m  heaven  *,o 
breathe.  When  the  people  find  the  clergy  thus  m 
earnest,  they  will  follow  them  fast  enough,  and  the 
money  will  come  in  like  salt  and  oil  upon  the  sacrifice. 
I  would  there  were  a  few  of  our  dignitaries  that  could 
think  grandly  about  things,  even  as  Jesus  thought- 
even  as  God  thought  when  he  sent  him.  There  are 
many  of  them  willing  to  stand  any  amount  of  persecu- 
tion about  trifles  :  the  same  enthusiasm  directed  by  high 
thoughts  about  the  kingdom  of  heaven  as  within  men 
and  not  around  them,  would  redeem  a  vast  region  from 
that  indifference  which  comes  of  judging  the  gospel  of 
God  by  the  church  of  Christ  with  its  phylacteries  and 
hems.*' 

"There  is  one  thing/'  said  Wynnie,  after  a  pause, 
*'that  I  have  often  thought  about — why  it  was  necessary 
for  Jesus  to  come  as  a  baby :  he  could  not  do  anything 
for  so  long." 

"  First,  I  would  answer,  Wynnie,  that  if  you  would  tell 
me  why  it  is  necessary  for  all  of  us  to  come  as  babies,  it 
would  be  less  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  why  he  came 
so :  whatever  was  human  must  be  his.  But  I  would  say 
next,  Are  you  sure  that  he  could  not  do  anything  for  ?o 
long?  Does  a  baby  do  nothing?  Ask  mamma  there, 
Is  it  for  nothing  that  the  mother  lifts  up  such  heartfuls 
of  thanks  to  God  for  the  baby  on  her  knee  %  Is  it  nothing 
that  the  baby  opens  such  fountains  of  love  in  almost  all 
the  hearts  around?  Ah!  you  do  not  tliinK  how  much 
every  baby  has  to  do  with  the  saving  of  the  world — the 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING.  53 

saving  of  it  from  selfishness,  and  folly,  and  greed.  And 
for  Jesus,  was  he  not  going  to  establish  the  reign  of  love 
in  the  earth  ?  How  could  he  do  better  than  begin  from 
babyhood  ?  He  had  to  lay  hold  of  the  heart  of  the 
world  :  how  could  he  do  better  than  begin  with  his 
mother's — the  best  one  in  it.  Through  his  mother's  love 
first,  he  grew  into  the  world.  It  was  first  by  the  door  of 
all  the  holy  relations  of  the  family  that  he  entered  the 
human  world,  laying  hold  of  mother,  father,  brothers, 
sisters,  all  his  friends ;  then  by  the  door  of  labour,  for 
he  took  his  share  of  his  father's  work ;  then,  when  he 
was  thirty  years  of  age,  by  the  door  of  teaching — by  kind 
deeds,  and  sufferings,  and  through  all  by  obedience  unto 
the  death.  You  must  not  think  little  of  the  grand  thirty 
years  wherein  he  got  ready  for  the  chief  work  to  follow. 
You  must  not  think  that  while  he  was  thus  preparing  foi 
his  public  ministrations,  he  was  not  all  the  time  saving 
the  world,  even  by  that  which  he  was  in  the  midst  of  it, 
ever  laying  hold  of  it  more  and  more.  These  were  thin|i;s 
not  so  easy  to  tell.  And  you  must  remember  that  our 
records  are  very  scanty.  It  is  a  small  biography  we  ha\  e 
of  a  man  who  became — to  say  nothing  more — the  Man 
of  the  world — the  Son  of  Man.  No  doubt  it  is  enough, 
or  God  would  have  told  us  more  ;  but  surely  we  are  not  to 
suppose  that  there  was  nothing  significant,  nothing  of 
saving  power  in  that  which  we  are  not  told.  Charlie, 
ivrouldn't  you  have  liked  to  see  the  little  baby  Jesus?" 

"Yes,  that  I  would.  I  would  have  given  b'm  njy 
white  rabbit  with  the  pink  eyes." 

"That  is  what  the  great  painter   Tilian    must  have 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


thought,  Charlie  ;  for  he  has  painted  him  playing  with  k 
white  rabbit, — not  such  a  pretty  one  as  yours." 

"  I  would  have  carried  him  about  all  day,"  said  Dora, 
"as  little  Henny  Parsons  does  her  baby-brother.** 

**  Did  he  have  any  brother  or  sister  to  carry  him  about, 
papa?**  asked  Harry. 

"  No,  my  boy ;  for  he  was  the  eldest.  But  you  may 
be  pretty  sure  he  carried  about  his  brothers  and  sisters 
that  came  after  him." 

"  Wouldn't  he  take  care  of  them,  just !  **  said  Charlie. 

**  I  wish  I  had  been  one  of  them,"  said  Constance. 

"You  are  one  of  them,  my  Connie.  Now  he  is  so 
great  and  so  strong  that  he  can  carry  father  and  mother 
and  all  of  us  in  his  bosom." 

Then  we  sung  a  child's  hymn  in  praise  of  the  God 
of  little  children,  and  the  little  ones  went  to  bed, 
Constance  was  tired  now,  and  we  left  her  with  Wynnie. 
We  too  went  early  to  bed. 

About  midnight  my  wife  and  I  awoke  together — at 
least  neither  knew  which  waked  the  other.  The  wind 
was  still  raving  about  the  house,  with  lulls  between  its 
charges. 

"  There 's  a  child  crying  !  **  said  my  wife,  starting  upi. 

I  sat  up  too,  and  listened. 

**  There  is  some  creature,"  I  granted. 

**  It  is  an  infant,"  insisted  my  wife.  **  It  can't  be  either 
of  the  boys.** 

I  was  out  of  bed  in  a  moment,  and  my  wife  the  same 
instant.  We  hurried  on  some  of  our  clothes,  going  to 
th/»  windows  and  listening  as  we  did  so.     We  seemed  to 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING  55 

hear  the  wailing  through  the  loudest  of  the  wind,  and 
in  the  lulls  were  sure  of  it.  But  it  grew  fainter  as  we 
listened.  The  night  was  pitch  dark.  I  got  a  lantern, 
and  hurried  out.  I  went  round  the  house  till  I  came 
under  our  bed-room  windows,  and  there  listened.  I 
heard  it,  but  not  so  clearly  as  before.  I  set  out  as  well 
as  I  could  judge  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  I  could 
find  nothing.  My  lantern  lighted  only  a  few  yards  around 
me,  and  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  it  blew  through 
every  chink,  and  threatened  momently  to  blow  it  out. 
My  wife  was  by  my  side  before  I  knew  she  was  coming. 

"  My  dear ! "  I  said,  "  it  is  not  fit  for  you  to  be  out." 

•*  It  is  as  fit  for  me  as  for  a  child,  anyhow,"  she 
answered.     **  Do  Hsten." 

It  was  certainly  no  time  for  expostulation.  All  the 
mother  was  awake  in  Ethelwyn's  bosom.  It  would  have 
been  cruelty  to  make  her  go  in,  though  she  was  indeed 
ill  fitted  to  encounter  such  a  night-wind.   • 

Another  wail  reached  us.  It  seemed  to  come  from  a 
thicket  at  one  corner  of  the  lawn.  We  hurried  thither. 
Again  a  cry,  and  we  knew  we  were  much  nearer  to  it 
Searching  and  searching  we  went. 

**  There  it  is  I "  Ethelwyn  almost  screamed,  as  the 
feeble  light  of  the  lantern  fell  on  a  dark  bundle  of  some- 
thing under  a  bush.  She  caught  at  it.  It  gave  another 
pitiful  wail — the  poor  baby  of  some  tramp,  rolled  up  in  a 
dirty,  ragged  shawl,  and  tied  round  with  a  bit  of  string,  as  i{ 
it  had  been  a  parcel  of  clouts.  She  set  off  running  with 
it  to  the  house,  and  I  followed,  much  fearing  she  woulJ 
miss  her  way  in  tlie  dark,  and  fall     X  could  hardly  gel 


56  THE    SFABOARD    PARISl 


up  with  her,  so  eager  was  she  to  save  the  child.  She 
darted  up  to  her  own  room,  where  the  fire  was  not  yet 
out. 

"  Run  to  the  kitchen,  Harry,  and  get  some  hot  water. 
Take  the  two  jugs  there — you  can  empty  them  in  the 
sink  :  you  won't  know  where  to  find  anything.  There 
wili  be  plenty  in  the  boiler." 

By  the  time  I  returned  with  the  hot  water,  she  had 
taken  olT  the  child's  covering,  and  was  sitting  with  it, 
wrapped  in  a  blanket,  before  the  fire.  The  Httle  thing 
was  cold  as  a  stone,  and  now  silent  and  motionless.  We 
had  found  it  just  in  time.  Ethelwyn  ordered  me  about 
as  if  I  had  been  a  nursemaid.  I  poured  the  hot  water 
into  a  foot-bath. 

"  Some  cold  water,  Harry.  You  would  boil  the 
child." 

"  You  made  me  throw  away  the  cold  water,"  I  said, 
laughing. 

"  There  's  some  in  the  bottles,"  she  '•eturned.  "  Make 
haste." 

I  did  try  to  make  haste,  but  I  could  not  be  quick 
enough  to  satisfy  Ethelwyn. 

"  The  child  will  be  dead,"  she  cried,  "  before  we  get  it 
in  the  water." 

She  had  its  rags  off  in  a  moment — there  was  very 
little  to  remove  after  the  shawl.  How  white  the  little 
thing  was,  though  dreadfully  neglected  !  It  was  a  girl- 
not  more  than  a  few  weeks  old,  we  agreed.  Her  little 
heart  was  still  beating  feebly;  and  as  she  was  a  well- 
inade,  apparently  healthy  infant,  we  had  every  hope  of 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING.  57 

recovering  her.  And  we  were  not  disappointed.  She 
began  to  move  her  little  legs  and  arms  with  short,  con- 
vulsive motions. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  dairy  is,  Harry  T'  asked  my 
wife,  with  no  great  compliment  to  my  bumps  of  locality, 
which  I  had  always  flattered  myself  were  beyond  tiie 
average  in  development. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  I  answered. 

^*  Could  you  tell  which  was  this  night's  milk  now!* 

"  There  will  be  less  cream  on  it,"  I  answered. 

"Bring  a  little  of  that  and  some  more  hot  water.  I've 
got  some  sugar  here.     I  wish  we  had  a  bottle." 

I  executed  her  commands  faithfully.  By  the  time  I 
returned  the  child  was  lying  on  her  lap,  clean  and  dry— 
a  fine  baby  I  thought.  Ethelwyn  went  on  talking  to 
her,  and  praising  her  as  if  she  had  not  only  been  the 
finest  specimen  of  mortaHty  in  the  world,  but  her  own 
child  to  boot.  She  got  her  to  take  a  few  spoonfuls 
of  milk  and  water,  and  then  the  little  thing  fell  fast 
asleep. 

Ethelwyn's  nursing  days  were  not  so  far  gone  by  that 
she  did  not  know  where  her  baby's-clothes  were.  She 
gave  me  the  child,  and  gomg  to  a  wardrobe  in  the  room, 
brought  out  some  night-things,  and  put  them  on.  I 
could  not  understand  in  the  least  why  the  sleeping  dar- 
ling must  be  indued  with  little  chemise,  and  flannel,  and 
nightgown,  and  I  do  not  know  what  all,  requiring  a 
world  of  nice  care,  and  a  hundred  turnings  to  and  fro, 
now  on  its  Httle  stomach,  now  on  its  back,  now  sitting 
up,  now  lying  down,  when  it  would  have  slept  just  at 


$i  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

well,  and  I  venture  to  think  much  more  comfortably,  it 
laid  in  soft  blankets  and  well  covered  over.  But  I  had 
never  ventured  to  interfere  with  any  of  my  own  cnildren, 
devoutly  believing  up  to  this  monjent,  though  in  a  dim 
unquestioning  way,  that  there  must  be  some  hidden 
feminine  wisdom  in  the  whole  process ;  and  now  that  I 
had  begun  to  question  it  I  found  that  my  opportunity 
had  long  gone  by,  if  I  had  ever  had  one.  And  after  all 
there  may  be  some  reason  for  it,  though  I  confess  I  do 
strongly  suspect  that  all  these  matters  are  so  wonderfully 
complicated  in  order  that  the  girl  left  in  the  woman  may 
have  her  heart's  content  of  playing  with  her  doll ;  just 
as  the  woman  hid  in  the  girl  expends  no  end  of  lovely 
affection  upon  the  dull  stupidity  of  wooden  cheeks  and 
a  body  of  sawdust  But  it  was  a  delight  to  my  heart  to 
see  how  Ethelwyn  could  not  be  satisfied  without  treating 
the  foundhng  in  precisely  the  same  fashion  as  one  of 
her  own.  And  if  this  was  a  necessary  preparation  for 
what  should  follow,  I  would  be  the  very  last  to  coniplain 
of  it 

We  went  to  bed  again,  and  the  forsaken  child  of  some 
half-animal  mother,  now  perhaps  asleep  in  some  filthy 
lodging  for  tramps,  lay  in  my  Ethelwyn's  bosom.  I 
loved  her  the  more  for  it;  though,  I  confess,  it  would 
have  been  very  painful  to  me  had  she  shown  it  possible 
for  her  to  treat  the  baby  otherwise,  especially  after  what 
we  had  been  talking  about  that  same  evening. 

So  we  had  another  child  in  the  house,  and  nobody 
knew  anything  about  it  but  ourselves  two.  The  house- 
hold had  never  been  disturbed  by  all   the  going  and 


A    SUNDAY    EVENING.  59 

coming.  After  everything  had  been  done  for  her,  we 
had  a  good  laugh  over  the  whole  matter.  Then  Ethel- 
wyn  fell  a-crying. 

"  Pray  for  the  poor  thing,  Harry,"  she  sobbed,  "before 
you  come  to  bed." 

I  knelt  down,  and  said — 

**  O  Lord  our  Father,  this  is  as  much  thy  child  and 
as  certainly  sent  to  us  as  if  she  had  been  born  of  us. 
Help  us  to  keep  the  child  for  thee.  Take  thou  care  of 
thy  own,  and  teach  us  what  to  do  with  her,  and  how  to 
order  our  ways  towards  her." 

Then  I  said  to  Etneiwyn — 

"  We  will  not  say  one  word  more  about  it  to  night. 
You  must  try  to  go  to  sleep.  I  dare  say  the  little  thing 
will  sleep  till  the  morning,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  if  she 
does.  Good-night,  my  love.  You  are  a  true  mother. 
Mind  you  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  am  half  asleep  already,  Harry.  Good-night,**  she 
returned. 

I  know  nothing  more  about  anything  till  I  woke 
in  the  morning,  except  that  I  had  a  dream,  which  I 
have  not  made  up  my  mind  yet  whether  I  shall  tell  OK 
not     We  slept  soundly — God's  baby  and  all. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MY    DREAM. 

THINK  I  will  tell  the  dream  I  had.  I  canncS 
well  account  for  the  beginning  of  it :  the  end 
will  appear  sufficiently  explicable  to  those 
who  are  quite  satisfied  that  they  get  rid  of 
the  mystery  of  a  thing  when  they  can  associate  it  with 
something  else  with  which  they  are  familiar.  Such  do 
not  ca'-e  to  see  that  the  thing  with  which  they  associate 
it  may  be  as  mysterious  as  the  other.  For  although  use 
too  often  destroys  marvel,  it  cannot  destroy  the  marvel- 
lous. The  origin  of  our  thoughts  is  just  as  wonderful  as 
the  origin  of  our  dreams. 

In  my  dream  I  found  myself  in  a  pleasant  field  full 
of  daisies  and  white  clover.  ■  The  sun  was  setting.  The 
wind  was  going  one  way,  and  the  shadows  another.  I 
felt  rather  tired,  I  neithei  knew  nor  thought  why.  With 
nn  old  man's  prudence,  I  would  not  sit  down  upon  the 
grass,  but  looked  about  for  a  more  suitable  seat     Then 


MY    DREAM.  6l 


I  saw,  for  often  in  our  dreams  there  is  an  immediate 
response  to  our  wishes,  a  long,  rather  narrow  stone  lying 
a  few  yards  from  me.  I  wondered  how  it  could  have 
come  there,  for  there  were  no  mountains  or  rocks  near: 
the  field  was  part  of  a  level  country.  Carelessly,  I  sat 
down  upon  it  astride,  and  watched  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  Somehow  I  fancied  that  his  I'ght  was  more  sor- 
rowful than  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  should  be,  and 
I  began  to  feel  very  heavy  at  the  heart.  No  sooner  had 
the  last  brilliant  spark  of  his  light  vanished,  than  I  felt 
the  stone  under  me  begin  to  move.  With  the  inactivity 
of  a  dreamer,  however,  I  did  not  care  to  rise,  but 
wondered  only  what  would  come  next.  My  seat,  after 
several  strange  tumbling  motions,  seemed  to  rise  into 
the  air  a  little  way,  and  then  I  found  that  I  was  astride 
of  a  gaunt,  bony  horse — a  skeleton  horse  almost,  only 
he  had  a  gray  skin  on  him.  He  began,  apparently  with 
pain,  as  if  his  joints  were  all  but  too  stiff  to  move,  to  go 
forward  in  the  direction  in  which  he  found  himself.  I 
kept  my  seat.  Indeed,  I  never  thought  of  dismount- 
ing. I  was  going  on  to  meet  what  might  come.  Slowly, 
feebly,  trembling  at  every  step,  the  strange  steed  went, 
and  as  he  went  his  joints  seemed  to  become  less  stifi^ 
and  he  went  a  little  faster.  All  at  once  I  found  that  the 
pleasant  field  had  vanished,  and  that  we  were  on  the 
borders  of  a  moor.  Straight  forward  the  liorse  carried 
me,  and  the  moor  grew  very  rough,  and  he  went  stumb- 
ling dreadfully,  but  always  recovenng  hmiseif  Every 
moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  fall  to  rise  no  more, 
but  as  oilen   he  found   frcbh .  looting.     At    length    the 


63  THS    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

surface  became  a  little  smoother,  and  he  began  a 
boirible  canter  which  lasted  till  he  reached  a  low, 
broken  wall,  over  which  he  half  talked,  half  fell  into 
what  was  plainly  an  ancient  neglected  churchyard.  The 
mounds  were  low  and  covered  with  rank  grass.  In 
some  parts,  hollows  had  taken  the  place  of  mounds. 
Gravestones  lay  in  every  position  except  the  level  or 
the  upright,  and  broken  masses  of  monuments  were 
scattered  about.  My  horse  bore  me  into  the  midst  of 
it,  and  there,  slow  and  stiff  as  he  had  risen,  he  lay  down 
again.  Once  more  I  was  astride  of  a  long  narrow  stone. 
And  now  I  found  that  it  was  an  ancient  gravestone  which 
I  knew  well  in  a  certain  Sussex  churchyard,  the  top 
of  ii  carved  into  the  rough  resemblance  of  a  human 
skeleton —that  of  a  man,  tradition  said,  who  had  been 
killed  by  a  serpent  that  came  out  of  a  bottomless  pool 
in  the  next  field.  How  long  I  sat  there  I  do  not  know ; 
but  at  last  I  saw  the  faint  gray  light  of  morning  begin 
to  appear  in  front  of  me.  The  horse  of  death  had  carried 
me  eastward.  The  dawn  grew  over  the  top  of  a  hill  that 
here  rose  against  the  horizon.  But  it  was  a  wild  dreary 
dawn — a  blot  of  gray  first,  which  then  stretched  into 
long  lines  of  dreary  yellow  and  gray,  looking  more  like  a 
blasted  and  withered  sunset  than  a  fresh  sunrise.  And 
well  it  suited  that  waste,  wide,  deserted  churchyard,  if 
churchyard  I  ought  to  call  it  where  no  church  was  to  be 
seen — only  a  vast  hideous  square  of  graves.  Before  me 
I  noticed  especially  one  old  grave,  the  flat  stone  of 
which  had  broken  in  two  and  sunk  in  the  middle. 
While  I  sat  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  this  stone,  it  began 


MY    DREAM  6% 


to  move ;  the  crack  in  the  middle  closed,  then  widened 
again  as  the  two  halves  of  the  stone  were  lifted  up,  and 
fiun-g  outward,  hke  the  two  halves  of  a  folding  door. 
pTom  the  grave  rose  a  little  child,  smiling  such  perfect 
contentment  as  if  he  had  just  come  from  kissing  his 
vinother.  His  little  arms  had  flung  the  stones  apart,  and 
as  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  next  to  me,  they 
remained  outspread  from  the  action  for  a  moment,  as 
if  blessing  the  sleeping  people.  Then  he  came  towards 
me  with  the  same  smile,  and  took  my  hand.  I  rose, 
and  he  led  me  away  over  another  broken  wall  towards 
the  hill  that  lay  (before  us.  And  as  we  went  the  sua 
came  nearer,  the  pale  yellow  bars  flushed  into  orange 
and  rosy  red,  till  at  length  the  edges  of  the  clouds  were 
swept  with  an  agony  &(  golden  light,  which  even  my 
dreamy  eyes  could  not  endure,  and  I  awoke  weeping 
for  joy. 

This  waking  woke  my  wife,  who  sakl  m  some 
alarm — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  husband  f  ** 

So  I  told  her  my  dream,  and  how  in  my  sleep  mjr 
gladness  had  overcome  me. 

*'  It  was  this  little  darling  that  set  you  cireaming  s<^'* 
filie  said«  and  turning,  put  tlie  baby  in  my  su:mg. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    NEW   BABY. 

WILL  not  attempt  to  (describe  the  astor.fsh- 
iiient  of  the  members  of  our  household,  each 
in  succession,  as  the  news  of  the  child  spread 
CharHe  was  heard  shouting  across  the  stable- 
yard  to  his  brother — 

"Harry,  Harry!  Mamma  has  got  a  new  baby.  Isn't 
it  jolly  1" 

"  Where  did  she  get  hV*  cried  Harry  in  return. 
"In  the  parsley-bed,  I  suppose,"  answered  Charlie, 
and  was  nearer  right  than  usual ;  for  the  information  on 
which  his  conclusion  was  founded  had  no  doubt  been 
imparted  as  belonging  to  the  history  of  the  human 
race. 

But  my  reader  can  easily  imagine  the  utter  bewilderment 
of  those  of  the  family  whose  knowledge  of  human  affairs 
would  not  allow  of  their  curiosity  being  so  easily  satisfied 
as  that  of  the  boys.     In  them  was  exemplified  that  coiv- 


THE    NEW    BABY.  65 


flision  of  the  intellectual  being  which  is  produced  by  the 
witness  of  incontestable  truth  to  a  thing  incredible — in 
which  case  the  probability  always  is,  that  the  incredibility 
results  from  something  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer  falsely 
associated  with  and  disturbing  the  true  perception  of  the 
thing  to  which  witness  is  borne. 

Nor  was  the  astonishment  confined  to  the  family,  fof 
it  spread  over  the  parish  that  Mrs  Walton  had  got  an- 
other baby.  And  so,  indeed,  she  had.  And  seldom  has 
baby  met  with  a  more  hearty  welcome  than  this  baby 
met  with  from  every  one  of  our  family.  They  hugged  it 
first,  and  then  asked  questions.  And  that,  I  say,  is  the 
right  way  of  receiving  every  good  gift  of  God.  Ask  what 
questions  you  will,  but  when  you  see  that  the  gift  is  a 
good  one,  make  sure  that  you  take  it  There  is  plenty 
of  time  for  you  to  ask  questions  afterwards.  Then  the 
better  you  love  the  gift,  the  more  ready  you  will  be  to 
ask,  and  the  more  fearless  in  asking. 

The  truth,  however,  soon  became  known.  And  then, 
strange  to  relate,  we  began  to  receive  visits  of  condol- 
ence. Oh  !  that  poor  baby !  how  it  was  frowned  upon, 
and  how  it  had  heads  shaken  over  it,  just  because  it  was 
not  Eihelwyn's  baby!  It  could  not  help  that,  poor 
darling! 

"Of  course,  you'll  give  information  to  the  police," 
said,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  one  of  my  brethren  in  the  neigh- 
bournood,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  magistrate  at 
well.      . 

«  Why  r  I  asked. 


66  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Why  !  That  they  may  discover  the  parents,  to  be 
sure." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  as  hard  a  matter  to  prove  the  parent- 
age, as  it  would  be  easy  to  suspect  it  ?  "  I  asked.  "And 
just  think  what  it  would  be  to  give  the  baby  to  a  woman 
who  not  only  did  not  want  her,  but  who  was  not  her 
mother.  If  her  own  mother  came  to  claim  her  now, 
I  don't  say  I  would  refuse  her,  but  I  should  think  twice 
about  giving  her  up  after  she  had  once  abandoned  her 
for  a  whole  night  in  the  open  air.  In  fact,  I  don't  want 
the  parents." 

*'  But  you  don't  want  the  child." 

**  How  do  you  know  thatl"  I  returned — rather  rudely, 
I  am  afraid,  for  I  am  easily  annoyed  at  anything  that 
seems  to  me  heartless — about  children  especially. 

"  Oh  !  of  course,  if  you  want  to  have  an  orphan  asylum 
of  your  own,  no  cxne  has  a  right  to  interfere.  But  you 
ought  to  consider  other  people." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  thought  I  was  doing,"  I  answered ;' 
but  he  went  on  without  heeding  my  reply — 

*'  AV e  shall  all  be  having  babies  left  at  our  doors,  and 
some  of  us  are  not  so  fond  of  them  as  you  are.  Re- 
member, you  are  your  brother's  keeper." 

"  And  my  sister's  too,"  I  answered.  "  And  if  the 
question  lies  between  keeping  a  big,  burly  brother  like 
you,  and  a  tiny,  wee  sister  like  that,  I  venture  to  choose 
for  myself." 

"  She  ought  to  go  to  the  workhouse,"  said  the  magis- 
trate— a  friendly,  good-natured  man  enough  in  ordinary 
•—and  rising,  he  took  his  hat  and  departed. 


THR    NEW    BABY.  67 


This  man  had  no  children.  So  he  was — or  was  not, 
so  much  to  blame.     Which  ?     /  say  the  latter. 

Some  of  Ethehvyn's  friends  were  no  less  positive  about 
her  duty  in  the  affair.  I  happened  to  go  into  the  draw- 
ing room  during  the  visit  of  one  of  them — Miss  Bowdler. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs  Walton,"  she  was  saying,  "  you  'U 
be  having  all  the  tramps  in  England  leaving  their  babiei 
at  your  door." 

"  The  better  for  the  babies,"  interposed  I,  laughing. 

"  But  you  don't  think  of  your  wife,  Mr  Walton.*' 

"  Don't  I  ?     I  thought  I  did,"  I  returned,  drily. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  you  '11  repe  it  it." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  repent  of  anything  but  what  is 
bad." 

"Ah !  but,  really  !  it's  not  a  thing  to  be  made  game  of." 

"  Certainly  not.  The  baby  shall  be  treated  with  all 
due  respect  in  this  house." 

"  What  a  provoking  man  you  are  I  You  know  what 
I  mean  well  enough." 

"  As  well  as  I  choose  to  know — certainly,"  I  answered. 

This  lady  was  one  of  my  oldest  parishioners,  and  took 
liberties  for  which  she  had  no  other  justification,  except 
indeed  an  unhesitating  belief  in  the  superior  rectitude  of 
whatever  came  into  her  own  head  can  be  counted  as 
one.  When  she  was  gone,  my  wife  turned  to  me  with  a 
half-comic,  half-anxious  look,  and  said— 

"  But  it  would  be  rather  alarming,  Harry,  if  this  were 
to  get  abroad,  and  we  couldn't  go  out  at  the  door  in  the 
morning  without  being  in  danger  of  stepping  on  a  baby 
on  the  door-step." 


68  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


"You  might  as  well  have  said,  when  you  were  going 
to  be  married,  *  If  God  should  send  me  twenty  children, 
what  ever  should  I  do  ?*  He  who  sent  ns  this  one  can 
surely  prevent  any  more  from  coming  than  he  wants  to 
come.  All  that  we  have  to  think  of  is  to  do  right — not 
the  consequences  of  doing  right.  But  leaving  all  that 
aside,  you  must  not  suppose  that  wandering  mothers 
have  not  even  the  attachment  of  animals  to  their  off- 
spring. There  are  not  so  many  that  are  willing  to  part 
with  their  babies  as  all  that  would  come  to.  If  you 
beheve  that  God  sent  this  one,  that  is  enough  for  the 
present.  If  he  should  send  another,  we  should  know 
by  that  that  we  had  to  take  it  in." 

My  wife  said  the  baby  was  a  beauty.  I  could  see  that 
she  was  a  plump,  well-to-do  baby ;  and  being  by  nature 
no  particular  lover  of  babies  as  babies — that  is,  feeling 
none  of  the  inclination  of  mothers  and  nurses  and  elder 
sisters  to  eat  them,  or  rather,  perhaps,  loving  more  *or 
what  I  believed  than  what  I  saw — that  was  all  I  could 
pretend  to  discover.  But  even  the  aforementioned 
elderly  parishioner  was  compelled  to  allow  before  three 
months  were  over  that  little  Theodora — for  we  turned  the 
name  of  my  youngest  daughter  upside  down  for  her— 
"  was  a  proper  child."  To  none,  however,  did  she  seem 
to  bring  so  much  delight  as  to  our  de.ir  Constance. 
Oftener  than  not,  when  I  went  into  her  room,  I  found 
the  sleepy  useless  little  thing  lying  beside  her  on  the 
bed,  and  her  staring  at  it  with  such  lovirg  eyes  1  How  it 
began,  I  do  not  know,  but  it  came  at  last  to  be  called 
Connie's  Dora,  or  Miss  Connie's  baby,  all  over  the  houses 


THE    NEW    BABY.  69 


and  nothing  pleased  Connie  better.  Not  till  she  saw 
this  did  her  old  nurse  take  quite  kindly  to  the  infant ;  for 
she  regarded  her  as  an  interloper,  who  had  no  right  to  the 
tenderness  which  was  lavished  upon  her.  But  she  had 
no  sooner  given  in  than  the  baby  began  to  grow  dear  to 
her  as  well  as  to  the  rest  In  fact,  the  house  was  ere  long 
full  of  nurses.  The  staff  included  every  one  but  myself, 
who  only  occasionally,  at  the  entreaty  of  some  one  or 
other  of  the  younger  ones,  took  her  in  my  arms. 

But  before  she  was  three  months  old,  anxious  thoughts 
began  to  intrude,  all  centring  round  the  question  in  what 
manner  the  child  was  to  be  brought  up.  Certainly  there 
was  time  enough  to  think  of  this,  as  Ethehvyn  constantly 
reminded  me;  but  what  made  me  anxious  was  that  I  could 
not  discover  the  principle  that  ought  to  guide  me.  Now 
no  one  can  tell  how  soon  a  principle  in  such  a  case  will 
begin,  even  unconsciously,  to  operate ;  and  the  danger 
was  that  the  moment  when  it  ought  to  begin  to  operate 
would  be  long  past  before  the  principle  was  discovered,  ex- 
cept I  did  what  I  could  now  to  find  it  out.  I  had  again 
and  again  to  remind  myself  that  there  was  no  cause  for 
anxiety;  for  that  I  might  certainly  claim  the  enlighten- 
ment which  all  who  want  to  do  right  are  sure  to  receive ; 
but  still  I  continued  uneasy  just  from  feeling  a  vacancy 
A'here  a  principle  ought  to  have  bseo. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING. 

URING  all  this  time  Cor-nie  made  no  /crjr 
perceptible  progress—  in  the  recovery  of  her 
bodily  powers,  1  mean,  *or  her  heart  and 
mind  advanced  remarkably.  We  held  our 
Sunday  evening  assemblies  in  her  room  pretty  regularly, 
my  occasional  absence  in  the  exercise  of  my  duties  alone 
interfering  with  them.  In  connexion  with  one  of  these 
I  will  show  how  I  came  at  length  to  make  up  my  mind 
as  to  what  I  would  endeavour  to  keep  befoie  me  as  my 
object  in  the  training  of  little  Theodora,  always  remem- 
bering that  my  preparation  might  be  used  for  a  very 
different  end  from  what  I  purposed.  If  my  intention 
was  right,  the  fact  that  it  might  be  turned  aside  would 
not  trouble  me. 

We  had  spoken  a  good  deal  together  about  the  infancy 
and  childhood  of  Jesus,  about  the  shepherds,  and  the  wise 
men,  and  the  star  in  the  east,  and  the  children  of  Bethld- 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.  Jt 

hem,  I  encouraged  the  thoughts  of  all  the  children  to 
rest  and  brood  upon  the  fragments  that  are  given  us, 
and,  believing  that  the  imagination  is  one  of  the  most 
powerfid  of  all  the  faculties  for  aiding  the  growth  of  the 
truth  h)  the  mind,  I  would  ask  them  questions  as  to  what 
they  thought  he  might  have  said  or  done  in  ordinary 
family  occurrences,  thus  giving  a  reality  in  their  minds 
to  this  part  of  his  history,  and  trying  to  rouse  in  them 
a  habit  of  referring  their  conduct  to  the  standard  of  his. 
If  we  do  not  thus  employ  our  imagination  on  sacred 
things,  his  example  can  be  of  no  use  to  us  except  in 
exactly  corresponding  circumstances — and  when  can 
such  occur  from  one  end  to  another  of  our  lives  ?  The 
very  effort  to  think  how  he  would  have  done,  is  a 
wonderful  purifier  of  the  conscience,  and,  even  if  the 
conclusion  arrived  at  should  not  be  correct  from  lack 
of  sufficient  knowledge  of  his  character  and  principles, 
it  will  be  better  than  any  that  can  be  arrived  at  without 
this  inquiry.  Besides,  the  asking  of  such  questions  gave 
me  good  opportunity,  through  the  answers  they  returned, 
of  seeing  what  their  notions  of  Jesus  and  of  duty  were, 
and  thus  of  discovering  how  to  help  the  dawn  of  the 
light  in  their  growing  minds.  Nor  let  any  one  fear  that 
such  employment  of  the  divine  gift  of  imagination  will 
lead  to  fooHsh  vagaries  and  useless  inventions:  while 
the  object  is  to  discover  the  right  way — the  truth — there 
is  little  danger  of  that  Besides,  there  I  was  to  help 
hereby  in  the  actual  training  of  their  imaginations  lo 
truth  and  wisdom.  To  aid  in  this,  I .  told  them  some  of 
the  stories  that  were  circulated  about  him  in  the  early 


71  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

centuries  of  the  church,  but  which  the  church  has  re- 
jected as  of  no  authority;  and  I  showed  them  how  some 
of  them  could  not  be  true,  because  they  were  so  unhke 
those  words  and  actions  which  we  had  the  best  of  reasons 
foi  receiving  as  true;  and  how  one  or  two  of  them  might 
be  true — though,  considering  the  company  in  which  we 
found  them,  we  could  say  nothing  for  certain  concerning 
them.  And  such  wise  things  as  those  children  said 
sometimes !  It  is  marvellous  how  children  can  reach 
the  heart  of  the  truth  at  once.  Their  utterances  are 
sometimes  entirely  concordant  with  the  results  arrived 
at  through  years  of  thought  by  the  earnest  mind — results 
which  no  mind  would  ever  arrive  at  save  by  virtue  of  the 
child-like  in  it. 

Well,  then,  upon  this  evening  I  read  to  them  the  story 
of  the  boy  Jesus  in  the  temple.  Then  I  sought  to 
make  the  story  more  real  to  them  by  dwelling  a  little  on 
the  growing  fears  of  his  parents  as  they  went  from  group 
to  group  of  their  friends,  tracing  back  the  road  towards 
Jerusalem,  and  asking  every  fresh  company  they  knew  it 
they  had  seen  their  boy,  till  at  length  they  were  in  great 
trouble  when  they  could  not  find  him  even  in  Jerusalem. 
Then  came  the  delight  of  his  mother  when  she  did  find 
him  at  last,  and  his  answer  to  what  she  said.  Now, 
while  I  thus  Hngered  over  the  simple  story,  my  children 
had  put  many  quesiions  to  me  about  Jesus  being  a  boy. 
and  not  seeming  to  know  things  which,  if  he  was  God,  he 
roust  have  known,  they  thought.  To  some  of  these  I 
had  just  to  reply,  that  1  did  not  understand  myself,  and 
therefore  could  nor  teach  them  ;  to  others,  that. I  could 


ANOTHER  SUNDAY  EVENING.  JTj 

explain  them,  but  that  they  were  not  yet  some  of  them, 
oH  f  nough  to  receive  and  understand  my  explanation 
while  others  I  did  my  best  to  answer  as  simply  as  I 
could.  But  at  this  point  we  arrived  at  a  question  put 
by  Wynnie,  to  answer  which  aright  I  considered  of  the 
greatest  importance.     Wynnie  said, — 

"That  is  just  one  of  the  things  about  Jesus  that  have 
always  troubled  n?e,  papa." 

"What  is,  my  dear?"  I  said;  for  although  I  thought 
I  knew  well  enough  what  she  meant,  I  wished  her  to 
set  it  forth  in  her  own  words,  both  for  her  own  sake, 
and  the  sake  of  the  others,  who  would  probably  under- 
stand the  difficulty  much  better  if  she  presented  it  her- 
self 

"  I  mean  that  he  spoke  to  his  mother ** 

**  Why  don't  you  say  mamma,  Wynnie?"  said  Charlie. 
**  she  was  his  own  mamma,  wasn't  she,  papa  ] " 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  but  don't  you  know  that  the  shoe- 
maker's children  down  in  the  village  always  call  their 
mamma  mother  9  " 

"  Yes ;  but  they  are  shoemaker's  children." 
"  Well,  Jesus  was  one  of  that  class  of  people.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  carpenter.  He  called  his  mamma 
mother.  But,  Charlie,  mother  is  the  more  beautiful  word 
of  the  two,  by  a  great  deal,  I  think.  Lady  is  a  very 
pretty  word ;  but  7voinan  is  a  very  beautiful  word.  Just 
so  with  mamma  and  mother.  Mamma  is  pretty,  but 
mother  is  beautiful." 

"  Why  don't  we  always  say  mother  then?** 

'•Just  because  it  is  the  most  beautiful,  and  so  we 


74  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

keep  it  for  Sundays — that  is,  for  the  more  solemn  times 
•f  Hfe.  We  don't  want  it  to  get  common  to  us  with  too 
much  use.  We  may  think  it  as  much  as  we  Hke ;  think- 
ing does  not  spoil  it;  but  saying  spoils  many  things,  anJ 
especially  beautiful  words.  Now  we  must  let  Wynnie 
finish  what  she  was  saying." 

"  I  was  saying,  papa,  that  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if— 
I  know  it  can't  be  true — but  I  feel  as  if  Jesus  spoke 
unkindly  to  his  mother  when  he  said  that  to  her." 

I  looked  at  the  page  and  read  the  words,  "  How  is  it 
that  ye  sought  me  1  wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be  about  my 
Father's  business?"     And  I  sat  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Why  don't  you  peak,  papa?"  said  Harry. 

**I  am  sitting  wondering  at  myself,  Harry,  I  said, 
**  Long  after  I  was  your  age,  Wynnie,  I  remember  quite 
well  that  those  words  troubled  me  as  they  now  trouble 
you.  But  when  I  read  them  over  now,  they  seemed  to 
me  so  lovely  that  I  colild  hardly  read  them  aloud.  I 
can  recall  the  fact  that  they  troubled  me,  but  the  mode 
of  the  fact  I  scarcely  can  recall.  I  can  hardly  sec  now 
wherein  lay  the  hurt  or  offence  the  words  gave  me. 
And  why  is  that  ?  Simply  because  I  understand  them 
now,  and  I  did  not  understand  them  then.  I  took  them 
as  uttered  with  a  tone  of  reproof:  now  I  hear  them  as 
uttered  with  a  tone  of  loving  surprise.  But  really  I 
cannot  feel  sure  what  it  v/as  that  I  did  not  like.  And  I 
am  confident  it  is  so  with  a  great  many  things  that  we 
reject.  We  reject  them  simply  because  we  do  not 
understand  them.  Therefore,  indeed,  we  cannot  with 
trutli  be  said  to  reject  them  at  ail.     It  is  seme  false 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENINa  75 

appearance  that  we  reject  Some  of  the  grandest  things 
in  the  whole  realm  of  truth  look  repellent  to  us,  and 
we  turn  away  from  them,  ^mply  because  we  are  not — 
to  use  a  familiar  phrase — we  are  not  up  to  them.  They 
appear  to  us,  therefore,  to  be  what  they  are  not.  In- 
struction sounds  to  the  proud  man  like  reproof;  illumi- 
nation comes  on  the  vain  man  like  scorn ;  the  manifes- 
tation of  a  higher  condition  of  motive  and  action  than 
his  own,  falls  on  the  self-esteeming  like  condemnation ; 
but  it  is  consciousness  and  conscience  working  together 
that  produce  this  impression ;  the  result  is  from  the  man 
himself,  not  from  the  higher  source.  From  the  truth 
comes  the  power,  but  th&  shape  it  assumes  to  the  man 
is  from  the  man  himself." 

**  You  are  quite  beyond  me  now,  papa,"  said  Wynnie. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  "  I  will  return  to  the 
words  of  the  boy  Jesus,  instead  of  talking  more  about 
them,  and  when  I  have  shown  you  what  they  mean,  I 
think  you  will  allow  that  that  feeling  you  have  about 
them  is  all  and  altogether  an  illusion." 

"  There  is  one  thing  first,"  said  Connie,  "  that  I  want 
to  understand.  You  said  the  words  of  Jesus  rather 
indicated  surprise.  But  how  could  he  be  surprised  at 
anything  1  If  he  was  God,  he  must  have  known  every- 
thing." 

"  He  tells  us  himself  that  he  did  not  know  everything. 
He  says  once  that  even  he  did  not  know  one  thing- 
only  the  Father  knew  it." 

**  But  how  could  that  be  if  he  was  God  1 " 

**  My  dear,  that  is  one  of  the  things  that  it  seems  to 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


me  impossible  I  should  understand.  Certainly  I  think 
his  trial  as  a  man  would  not  have  been  perfect  had  I"  e 
known  everything.  He,  too,  had  to  live  by  faith  in  the 
Father.  .  And  remember  that  for  the  DiVine  Sonship  on 
earth  perfect  knowledge  was  not  necessary,  only  perfect 
confidence,  absolute  obedience,  utter  holiness.  There 
is  a  great  tendency  in  our  sinful  natures  to  put  knowledge 
and  power  on  a  level  with  goodness.  It  was  one  of  the 
lessons  of  our  Lord's  Hfe  that  they  are  not  so  ;  that  the 
one  grand  thing  in  humanity  is  faith  in  God  ;  that  the 
highest  in  God  is  his  truth,  liis  goodness,  his  right- 
ness.  But  if  Jesus  was  a  real  man,  and  no  mere  appear- 
ance of  a  man,  is  it  any  wonder  that,  with  a  heart  full 
to  the  brim  of  the  love  of  God,  he  should  be  for  a 
moment  surprised  that  his  mother,  whom  he  loved  so 
dearly,  the  best  human  being  he  knew,  should  not  have 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  if  he  was  not  with 
her,  he  must  be  doing  something  his  Father  wanted 
him  to  do  ]  For  this  is  just  what  his  answer  means. 
To  turn  it  into  the  ordinary  speech  of  our  day,  it  is  just 
this  :  '  Why  did  you  look  for  me  !  Didn't  you  know 
that  I  must  of  course  be  doing  something  ray  Father 
had  given  me  to  do  T  Just  think  of  the  quiet  sweetness 
of  confidence  in  this.  And  think  what  a  life  his  must 
have  been  up  to  that  twelfth  year  of  his,  that  such  an 
expostulation  with  his  mother  was  justified.  It  must 
have  had  reference  to  a  good  many  things  that  had 
passed  before  then,  which  ought  to  have  been  sufficient 
to  make  Mary  conclude  that  her  missing  boy  must  b« 
about  God's  business  somewhere.      If  her   heart    had 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.  7^ 

been  as  full  of  God  and  God's  buyiness  as  his,  she 
would  not  have  been  in  the  least  uneasy  about  hini. 
And  here  is  the  lesson  of  his  whole  Hfe  :  it  was  all  hii 
Father's  business.  The  boy's  mind  and  hands  were 
full  of  it  The  man's  mind  and  hands  were  full  of  it 
And  the  risen  conqueror  was  full  of  it  still.  For  the 
Father's  business  is  everything,  and  includes  all  work 
that  is  worth  doing.  We  may  say  in  a  full  grand  sense 
that  there  is  nothing  but  the  Father  and  his  business." 

"  But  we  have  so  jnany  things  to  do  that  are  not  hii 
business,"  said  Wynnie,  with  a  sigh  of  oppression. 

**Not  one,  my  darling.  If  anything  is  not  his  busi- 
ness, you  not  only  have  not  to  do  it,  but  you  ougln  not 
to  do  it  Your  words  come  from  the  want  of  spiritual 
sight  We  cannot  see  the  truth  in  common  things — the 
will  of  God  in  little  every-day  affairs,  and  that  is  how  they 
become  so  irksome  to  us.  Show  a  beautiful  picture,  one 
full  of  quiet  imagination  and  deep  thought,  to  a  common- 
minded  man  :  he  will  pass  it  by  with  some  slight  remark, 
thinking  it  very  ordinary  and  commonplace.  That  is 
because  he  is  commonplace.  Because  our  minds  are  so 
commonplace,  have  so  Httle  of  the  divine  imagination  in 
them,  therefore  we  do  not  recognize  the  spiritual  meaning 
and  worth,  we  do  not  perceive  the  beautiful  will  ■>(  God, 
in  the  things  required  of  us,  though  they  are  full  of  it 
But  if  we  ^0  them  we  shall  thus  make  acquaintance  with 
them,  and  come  to  see  what  is  in  them.  The  roughest 
kernel  amongst  them  has  a  tree  of  life  in  its  heart" 

"  I  wish  he  would  tell  me  something  to  do,**  said 
Charlie.     "  Wo-iVln't  I  do  it  T 


78  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  made  no  reply,  but  waited  for  an  opportunity  which 
I  was  pretty  sure  was  at  hand,  while  I  carried  the  mattei 
a  little  further. 

"  But  look   here,   Wynnie ;   listen   to   this,"  I  said : 

* '  And  he  went  down  with  them,  and  came  to  Nazareth, 

and  was  subject  unto  them.'      Was  that  not  doing  his 

Father's  business  too  1     Was  it  not  doing  the  business  ol 

his   Father  in  heaven  to   honour    his    father    and   his 

mother,  though  he   knew  that   his  days   would  not  be 

long  in  that  land?      Did  not  his   whole   teaching,  his 

whole  doing,  rest  on  the  relation  of  the  Son  to  the  Father, 

and  surely  it  was  doing  his  Father's  business   then  to 

obey  his  parents — to  serve  them,  to  be  subject  to  them. 

It  is  true  that  the  business  God  gives  a  man  to  do  xm,y 

be  said  to  be  the  peculiar  walk  in  life  into  which  he  is 

led,  but  that  is  only  as  distinguishing  it  from  another 

man's  peculiar  business.     God  gives  us  all  our  business, 

and  the  business  which  is  common  to  humanity  is  more 

peculiarly  God's  business  than  that  which  is  one  man's 

and  not  another's — because  it  lies  nearer  the  root,  and 

is  essential.     It  does  not  matter  whether  a  man  is  a 

farmer  or  a  physician,  but  it  greatly  matters  whether  he 

is  a  good  son,  a  good  husband,  and  so  on.      O  my 

children  1"  I  said,  "  if  the  world  could  but  be  brought 

to  beheve — the  world  did  I  say  1 — if  the  best  men  in 

the  world  could  only  see,  as  God  sees  it,  that  service  is 

in  itself  the  noblest  exercise  of  human  powers  ;  if  they 

could  see  that  God  is  the  hardest  worker  of  all,  and 

that  his  nobility  are  those  who   do  the   most  service, 

surelv  it  would  alter  the  whole  asnect  of  the  church. 


ANOTHER  SUNDAY  EVENING.  79 

Menial  offices,  for  instance,  would  soon  cease  to  be 
talked  of  with  that  contempt  which  shows  that  there  is 
no  true  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  same  principle 
runs  through  the  highest  duty  and  the  ho  west — that  the 
lowest  work  which  God  gives  a  man  to  do  must  be  in 
its  nature  noble,  as  certainly  noble  as  the  highest  This 
would  destroy  condescension,  which  is  the  rudeness,  yes, 
impertinence,  of  the  higher,  as  it  would  destroy  insolence, 
which  is  the  rudeness  of  the  lower.  He  who  recognized 
the  dignity  of  his  own  lower  office,  would  thereby  recog- 
nize the  superiority  of  the  higher  office,  and  would  be 
the  last  either  to  envy  or  degrade  it  He  would  see  in 
it  his  own — only  higher,  only  better,  and  revere  it  But 
I  am  afraid  I  have  wearied  you,  my  children.* 

"  Oh,  no,  papa ! "  said  the  elder  ones,  while  the  little 
ones  gaped  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  know  I  am  in  danger  of  doing  so  when  I  come  to 
speak  upon  this  subject .  it  has  such  a  hold  of  my  heart 
and  mind  ! — Now,  Charlie,  my  boy,  go  to  bed.'* 

But  Charlie  was  very  comfortable  before  the  fire,  on 
the  rug,  and  did  not  want  to  go.  First  one  shoulder 
went  up,  and  then  the  other,  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  went  down,  as  if  to  keep  the  balance  true.  He 
did  not  move  to  go.  I  gave  him  a  few  moments  to 
recover  himself,  but  as  the  black  frost  still  endured,  I 
thought  it  was  time  to  hold  up  a  mirror  to  him.  When 
he  was  a  very  little  boy,  he  was  much  in  the  habit  of 
getting  out  of  temper,  and  then  as  now,  he  made  a  face 
that  was  hideous  to  behold ;  and  to  cure  him  of  tliis,  I 
used  to  make  him  carry  a  little  mirror  about  his  neck, 


8o  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

that  the  means  might  be  always  at  hand  of  showing  hinu 
self  to  him  :  it  was  a  sort  of  artificial  conscience  which, 
by  enabling  him  to  see  the  picture  of  his  own  condition, 
which  the  face  always  is,  was  not  unfrequently  operative 
in  rousing  his  real  conscience,  and  making  him  ashamed 
of  himself.  '  But  now  the  mirror  I  wanted  to  hold  up  to 
him  was  a  past  mood,  in  the  light  of  which  the  present 
would  show  what  it  was. 

"  Charlie,"  I  said,  "  a  little  while  ago  you  were  wish- 
ing that  God  would  give  you  something  to  do.  And  now 
when  he  does,  you  refuse  at  once,  without  even  thinking 
about  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  God  wants  me  to  go  to 
bed?"  said  Charlie,  with  something  of  surly  impertin- 
ence, which  I  did  not  meet  with  reproof  at  once  because 
there  was  some  sense  along  with  the  impudence. 

"  I  know  that  God  wants  you  to  do  what  I  tell  you, 
and  to  do  it  pleasantly.  Do  you  think  the  boy  Jesus 
would  have  put  on  such  a  face  as  that — I  wish  I  had  the 
little  mirror  to  show  it  to  you — when  his  mother  told 
him  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed  ] " 

And  now  Charlie  began  to  look  ashamed.  I  left  the 
truth  to  work  in  him,  because  I  saw  it  was  working. 
Had  I  not  seen  that,  I  should  have  compelled  him  to 
go  at  once,  that  he  might  learn  the  majesty  of  law.  But 
now  that  his  own  better  self,  the  self  enlightened  of  the 
light  that  lighteneth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the 
world,  was  working,  time  might  well  be  afforded  it  to 
work  its  perfect  work.  I  went  on  talking  to  the  others. 
In  the  space  of  not  more  than  one  minute,  he  rose  and 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVEN'NG.  8l 

came  to  me,  looking  both  good  and  ashamed,  and  held 
up  his  face  to  kiss  me,  saying,  "  Good-night,  papa.'*  I 
bade  him  good-niglit,  and  kissed  him  more  tenderly  than 
usual,  that  he  might  know  that  it  was  all  right  between 
us.  I  required  no  formal  apology,  no  begging  of  my 
pardon,  as  some  parents  think  right  It  seemed  enough 
to  me  that  his  heart  was  turned.  It  is  a  terrible  thing 
to  run  the  risk  of  changing  humility  into  humiliation. 
Humiliation  is  one  of  the  proudest  conditions  in  the 
human  world.  When  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
say  more  explicitly,  "  Father,  I  have  sinned,"  then  let 
him  say  it;  but  not, till  then.  To  compel  manifestation 
is  one  surest  way  to  check  feeling. 

My  readers  must  not  judge  it  silly  to  record  a  boy's 
unwillingness  to  go  to  bed.  It  is  precisely  the  same  kind 
of  disobedience  that  some  of  them  are  guilty  of  them- 
selves, and  that  in  things  not  one  whit  more  important 
than  this,  only  those  things  happen  to  be  their  wish  at 
the  moment  and  not  Charley's,  and  so  gain  their  supe- 
nohty; 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Theodora's  doom. 

RY  not  to  get  weary,  respected  reader,  of  so 
much  of  what  I  am  afraid  most  people  will 
call  tiresome  preaching.  But  I  know  if  you 
get  anything  practicable  out  of  it,  you  will 
not  be  so  soon  tired  of  it.  I  promise  you  more  story 
by  and  by.  Only  an  old  man,  like  an  old  horse,  must 
be  allowed  to  take  very  much  his  own  way — go  his  own 
pace,  I  should  have  said.  I  am  afraid  there  must  be  a 
little  more  of  a  similar  sort  in  this  chapter. 

On  the  Monday  morning  I  set  out  to  visit  one  or  two 
people  whom  the  severity  of  the  weather  had  kept  from 
church  on  the  Sunday.  The  last  severe  frost,  as  it  turned 
out,  of  the  season,  was  possessing  the  earth.  The  sun 
was  low  in  the  wintry  sky,  and  what  seemed  a  very  cold 
mist  up  in  the  air  hid  him  from  the  earth.  I  was  walking 
along  a  path  in  a  field  close  by  a  hedge.  A  tree  had 
been  cut  down,  and  lay  upon  the  grass.      A  short  di» 


THEODORA'S    DOOM.  9^ 

tance  from  it  lay  its  own  figure  marked  out  in  hoar-frost 
There  alone  was  there  any  hoar-frost  on  the  field ;  the 
rest  was  all  of  the  loveliest  tenderest  green.  I  will 
not  say  the  figure  was  such  an  exact  resemblance  as  a 
photograph  would  have  been  ;  still  it  was  an  indubitable 
likeness.  It  appeared  to  the  hasty  glance  that  not  a 
branch,  not  a  knot  of  the  upper  side  of  the  tree  at  least 
was  left  unrepresented  in  shining  and  glittering  whiteness 
upon  the  green  grass.  It  was  very  pretty,  and,  I  confess, 
at  first  very  puzzling.  I  walked  on,  meditating  on  the  phe« 
nomenon,  till  at  length  I  found  out  its  cause.  The  hoar* 
frost  had  been  all  over  the  field  in  the  morning.  The 
sun  had  been  shining  for  a  time,  and  had  melted  the  frost 
away,  except  where  he  could  only  cast  a  shadow.  As  he 
rose  and  rose,  the  sJiadow  of  the  tree  had  shortened  and 
come  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  original,  growing  more  and 
more  like  as  it  came  nearer,  while  the  frost  kept  disap- 
pearing as  the  shadow  withdrew  its  protection  When 
the  shadow  extended  only  to  a  Httle  way  from  the  tree, 
the  clouds  came  and  covered  the  sun,  and  there  were  no 
more  shadows,  only  one  great  one  of  the  clouds.  Then 
the  frost  shone  out  in  the  shape  of  the  vanished  shadow. 
It  lay  at  a  little  distance  from  the  tree,  because  the  tree 
having  been  only  partially  lopped,  some  gieat  stumps  of 
boughs  held  it  up  from  the  ground,  and  thus,  when  the 
sun  was  low,  his  light  had  shone  a  little  way  through  be- 
neath, as  well  as  over  the  trunk. 

My  reader  needs  not  be  afraid ;  I  am  not  going  to 
'•moralise  this  spectacle  with  a  thousand  similes."  I 
only  tell  it  him  as  a  very  pretty  phenomenon.      But  I 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


confess  I  walked  on  moralizing  it.  Any  new  thing  in 
nature — I  mean  new  in  regard  to  my  knowledge,  of  course 
i^always  made  me  happy ;  and  I  was  full  of  the  quiet 
pleasure  it  had  given  me  and  of  the  tlioughts  it  had 
brought  me,  when,  as  I  was  getting  over  a  stile,  whom 
should  I  see  in  the  next  field,  coming  along  the  footpath, 
but  the  lady  who  had  made  herself  so  disagreeable  about 
Theodora?  The  sight  was  rather  a  discord  in  my  feeling 
at  that  moment ;  perhaps  it  would  have  been  so  at  any 
moment.  But  I  prepared  myself  to  m.eet  her  in  the 
strength  of  the  good  humour  which  nature  had  just  be- 
stowed upon  me.  For  I  fear  the  failing  will  go  with  me  to 
the  grave  that  I  am  very  ready  to  be  annoyed,  even  to  the 
loss  of  my  temper,  at  the  urgings  of  ignoble  prudence. 

*'  Good  morning,  Miss  Bowdler,"  I  said. 

**  Good  morning,  Mr  Walton,"  she  returned.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  thought  me  impertinent  thfe  other  week ;  but 
you  know  by  this  time  it  is  only  my  way." 

"  As  such  I  take  it,"  I  answered,  with  a  smile. 

She  did  not  seem  quite  satisfied  that  I  did  not  defend 
her  from  her  own  accusation ;  but  as  it  was  a  just  one, 
I  could  not  do  so.  Therefore  she  went  on  to  repeat  the 
offence  by  way  of  justification. 

"  It  was  all  for  Mrs  Walton's  sake.  You  ought  to 
consider  her,  Mr  Walton.  She  has  quite  enough  to  do 
with  that  dear  Connie,  who  is  likely  to  be  an  invalid  all 
her  days — too  much  to  take  the  trouble  of  a  beggar's 
brat  as  well" 

*'  Has  Mrs  Walton  been  complaining  to  you  about  '% 
Miss  Bowdler  ? ''  I  asked. 


Theodora's  doom.  85 

**  Oh,  dear,  no !"  she  answered.  "  She  is  far  too  good 
to  complain  of  anything.  That's  just  why  her  friends 
must  look  after  her  a  bit,  Mr  Walton." 

"  Then  I  beg  you  won't  speak  disrespectfully  of  my 
little  Theodora.'* 

*'  Oh,  dear  me !  no.  Not  at  all.  I  don't  speak  dis- 
respectfully of  her." 

"  Even  amongst  the  class  of  which  she  comes,  *  a 
beggar's  brat '  would  be  regarded  as  bad  language." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  'm  sure,  Mr  Walton  !  If  you 
wi//  take  offence  " 

"  I  do  take  offence.  And  you  know  there  is  One 
who  has  given  especial  warning  against  offending  the 
little  onc'w" 

Miss  Bowdler  walked  away  in  high  displeasure — let 
me  hope  in  conviction  of  sin  as  well.  She  did  not 
appear  in  church  for  the  next  two  Sundays.  Then  she 
came  again.  But  she  called  very  seldom  at  the  Hall 
after  this,  and  I  believe  my  wife  was  not  sorry. 

Now,  whether  it  came  in  any  way  from  what  that  lady 
had  said  as  to  my  wife's  trouble  with  Constance  and 
Theodora  together,  I  can  hardly  tell ;  but  before  I  had 
reached  home  I  had  at  last  got  a  glimpse  of  something 
like  the  right  way,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  of  bringing  up 
Theodora,  When  I  went  into  the  house  I  looked  for  my 
wife  to  have  a  talk  with  her  about  it ;  but,  indeed,  it 
seemed  always  necessary  to  find  her  every  time  I  got 
home.  I  found  her  in  Connie's  room,  as  I  had  expected 
Now  although  we  were  never  in  the  habit  of  making  my* 
teries  of  things   in  which  there  was  no  mystery,  and 


86  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

talked  openly  before  our  children,  and  the  more  openly 
the  older  they  grew,  yet  there  were  times  when  we 
wanted  to  have  our  talks  quite  alone,  especially  when  we 
had  not  made  up  our  minds  about  something.  So  I 
asked  Ethelwyn  to  walk  out  with  me. 

"  I  *m  afraid  I  can't  just  this  moment,  husband,"  she 
answered.  She  was  in  the  way  of  using  that  form  of  ad- 
dress, for  she  said  it  meant  everything  without  saying  it 
aloud.  "  I  can't  just  this  moment,  for  there  is  no  one 
at  liberty  to  stay  with  Connie." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  me,  mamma,*'  said  Connie,  cheer- 
fully. "Theodora  will  take  care  of  me,"  and  she 
looked  fondly  at  the  child,  who  was  lying  by  her  side 
fast  asleep, 

**  There  !  **  I  said.  And  both  looked  up  surprised,  for 
neither  knew  what  I  meant.  "  I  will  tell  you  afterwards," 
1  said,  laughing.     "  Come  along,  Ethel." 

"  You  can  ring  the  bell,  you  know,  Connie,  if  you 
should  want  anything,  or  your  baby  should  wake  up  and 
be  troublesome.  You  won't  want  me  long,  will  you,  hus- 
band ?" 

"  I  'm  not  sure  about  that.  You  must  tell  Susan  to 
watch  for  the  bell." 

Susan  was  the  old  nurse. 

Ethel  put  on  her  hooded  cloak,  and  we  went  out.  to- 
gether. I  took  her  across  to  the  field  where  I  had  seen 
the  hoary  shadow.  The  sun  had  not  shone  out,  and  I 
hoped  it  would  be  there  to  gladden  her  dear  eyes  as  it 
had  gladdened  mine ,  but  it  was  gone.  The  warmth  of 
Ihe  «un,  without  its  direct  rays,  had  melted  it  away,  as 


THEODORA'S    DOOM. 


sacred  influences  will  sometimes  do  with  other  shadows, 
without  the  mind  knowing  any  more  than  the  grass  how 
the  shadow  departed.  There,  reader  I  I  have  got  a  bit 
of  a  moral  in  about  it  before  you  knew  what  I  was  doing. 
But  I  was  sorry  my  wife  could  see  it  only  through  my 
eyes  and  words.  Then  I  told  her  about  Miss  Bowdler, 
and  what  she  had  said.  Ethel  was  very  angry  at  her 
impertinence  in  speaking  so  to  me.  That  was  a  wife's 
feeling,  you  know,  and  perhaps  excusable  in  the  first  im- 
pression of  the  thing. 

"She  seems  to  think,"  she  said,  "that  she  was  sent 
into  the  world  to  keep  other  people  right  instead  o'  her- 
self. I  am  very  glad  you  set  her  down,  as  the  maids 
say." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there 's  much  harm  in  her,"  I  re- 
turned, which  was  easy  generosity,  seeing  my  wife  was 
taking  my  part.  "  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  we  are 
not  both  considerably  indebted  to  her ;  for  it  was  after  I 
met  her  that  a  thought  came  into  my  head  as  to  how  we 
ought  to  do  with  Theodora.** 

"  Still  troubling  yourself  about  that,  husband  ?** 

"  The  longer  the  difficulty  lasts,  the  more  necessary  is 
it  that  it  should  be  met,"  I  answered.  "  Our  measures 
must  begin  sometime,  and  when,  who  can  tell?  We 
ought  to  have  them  in  our  heads,  or  they  will  never  begin 
at  all." 

"  Well.  I  confess  they  are  rather  of  a  general  nature 
at  present, — Belonging  to  humanity  rather  than  the  indi- 
vidual, as  you  would  say — consisting  chiefly  in  washing, 
dressing,  feeding,  and  apostrophe,  varied  with  lullabying. 


88  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

But  our  hearts  are  a  better  place  for  our  measures  than 
our  heads,  aren't  they  ]" 

*' Certainly;  I  walk  corrected.  Only  there's  no  feal 
about  your  heart.  I  'm  not  quite  so  sure  about  your 
head." 

'•  Thank  you,  husband.  But  with  you  for  a  head  it 
doesn't  matter,  does  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  that.  People  should  always  strengthen 
the  weaker  part,  for  no  chain  is  stronger  than  its  weakest 
link  ;  no  fortification  stronger  than  its  most  assailable 
point.  But  seriously,  wife,  I  trust  your  head  nearly, 
though  not  quite,  as  much  as  your  heart.  Now  to  go  to 
business.  There's  one  thing  we  have  both  made  up  our 
minds  about — that  there  is  to  be  no  concealment  with 
the  child.  God's  fact  must  be  known  by  her.  It  would 
be  cruel  to  keep  the  truth  from  her,  even  if  it  were  not 
sure  to  come  upon  her  with  a  terrible  shock  some  day. 
She  must  know  from  the  first,  by  hearing  it  talked  of — 
not  by  solemn  and  private  communication — that  she 
came  out  of  the  shrubbery.     That's  settled,  is  it  not  1 " 

"  Certainly.  I  see  that  to  be  the  right  way,"  re- 
fponded  Ethelwyn. 

"Now,  are  we  bound  to  bring  her  up  exactly  as  our 
own,  or  are  we  not  ? " 

"  We  are  bound  to  do  as  well  for  her  as  for  our  own.* 

"Assuredly.  But  if  we  brought  her  up  just  as  our 
own,  would  that,  the  facts  being  as  they  are,  be  to  do  as 
well  for  her  as  for  our  own  ? "  • 

"  I  doubt  it ;  for  other  people  would  not  choose  ta 
receive  her  as  we  have  done." 


THEODORA'S    DOOM.  89 

**  That  is  true.  She  would  be  continually  reminded  of 
her  origin.  Not  that  that  in  itself  would  be  any  evil ; 
but  as  they  would  do  it  by  excluding  or  neglecting  her, 
or,  still  worse,  b)''  taking  liberties  with  her,  it  would  be  a 
great  pain.  But  keeping  that  out  of  view,  would  it  be 
good  for  herself,  knowing  what  she  will  know,  to  be  thus 
brought  upl  Would  it  not  be  kinder  to  bring  her  up  in 
a  way  that  would  make  it  easier  for  her  to  relieve  th6 
gratitude  which  I  trust  she  will  feel — not  for  our  sakes — • 
I  hope  we  are  above  doing  anything  for  the  sake  of  the 
gratitude  which  will  be  given  for  it,  and  which  is  so  often 
far  beyond  the  worth  of  the  thing  done  — " 

**  Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Ilath  oftener  left  me  mourning,*   • 
said  Ethel. 

**Ah  I  you  understand  that  now,  my  Ethel!" 

**  Yes,  thank  you,  I  do." 

**  But  we  must  wish  for-gratitude  for  others'  sake, 
though  we  may  be  willing  to  go  without  it  for  our  own. 
Indeed,  gratitude  is  often  just  as  painful  as  Wordsworth 
there  represents  it  It  makes  us  so  ashamed ;  makes  us 
think  how  'much  more  we  mi^ht  have  done  ;  how  lovely 
a  thing  it  is  to  give  in  return  for  such  common  gifts  as 
ours  ;  how  needy  the  man  or  woman  must  be  in  whom 
a  trifle  awakes  so  much  emotion." 

"Yes;  but  we  must  not  in  justice  think  that  it  is 
merely  that  our  little  doing  seems  great  to  them :  it  is 
the  kindness  shown  them  therein,  for  which,  often,  they 
are  more  grateful  than  for  the  gift,  though  they  can't  show 
the  difference  in  their  thanks." 


QO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"And,  indeed,  are  not  aware  of  it  themselveSj  though 
it  is  so.  And  yet,  the  same  remarks  hold  good  about 
tlie  kindness  as  about  the  gift.  But  to  return  to 
Theodora.  If  we  put  her  in  a  way  of  hfe  that  would  be 
recognizant  of  whence  she  came,  and  how  she  had  been 
brought  thence,  might  it  not  be  better  for  her?  Would 
it  not  be  building  on  the  truth  ?  Would  she  not  be 
happier  for  it  ? " 

"  You  are  putting  general  propositions,  while  all  the 
time  you  have  something  particular  and  definite  in  your 
own  mind  ;  and  that  is  not  fair  to  my  place  in  the  con- 
ference," said  Ethel.  "  In  fact,  you  think  you  are  trying 
to  approach  me  wisely,  in  order  to  persuade,  I  will  not 
say  wheedky  me  into  something.  It 's  a  good  thing  you 
have  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove,  Harry,  for  you've  got 
the  other  thing." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  be  as  plain  as  ever  I  can  be, 
only  premising  that  what  .you  call  the  cunning  of  the 
serpent " 

"  Wisdom,  Harry,  not  cunning." 

"  Is  only  that  1  like  to  give  my  arguments  before  my 
proposition  But  here  it  is — bare  and  defenceless,  only 
— let  me  warn  you — with  a  whole  battery  behind  it :  it 
is,  to  bring  up  little  Theodora  as  a  servant  to  Constance." 

My  wife  laughed. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  for  one  who  says  so  much  about 
not  thinking  of  the  morrow,  you  do  look  rather  far 
forward." 

"  Not  with  any  anxfety,  however,  if  only  I  know  that  ] 
am  doing  right" 


THEODORA'S    DOOM. 


**  But  just  think  :  the  child  is  about  three  months  old." 

"Well;  Connie  will  be  none  the  worse  that  she  is 
being  trained  for  her.  I  don't  say  that  she  is  to  com- 
mence her  duties  at  once." 

"  But  Connie  may  be  at  the  head  of  a  house  of  her 
own  long  before  that." 

"  The  training  won't  be  lost  to  the  child  though. 
But  I  much  fear,  my  love,  that  Connie  will  never  be 
herself  again.  There  is  no  sign  of  it.  And  Turner 
does  not  give  much  hope." 

"  Oh  !  Harry,  Harry,  don't  say  so.  I  can't  bear  it. 
To  think  of  the  darling  child  lying  like  that  all  her 
life!" 

"  It  is  sad,  indeed ;  but  no  such  awful  misfortune 
surely,  Ethel.  Faven't  you  seen,  as  well  as  I,  that  the 
growth  of  that  cnild's  nature  since  her  accident  has  been 
marvellous  ]  Ten  times  rather  would  I  have  her  lying 
there  such  as  she  is,  than  have  her  well  and  strong  and 
silly,  with  her  bonnets  inside  instead  of  outside  her 
head.-' 

"  Yes,  but  she  needn't  have  been  Uke  that  Wynnie 
never  will." 

"Well,  but  God  does  all  things  not  only  well,  but 
best,  absolutely  best.  But  just  think  what  it  would  be  in 
any  circumstances  to  have  a  maid  that  had  begun  to  wait 
upon  her  from  the  first  days  that  she  was  able  to  toddle 
after  something  to  fetch  it  for  her." 

"  Won't  it  be  like  making  a  slave  of  her  1  *' 

•*  Won't  it  be  like  giving  her  a  divine  freedom  from 
the  first  ?    The  lack  of  service  is  the  ruin  of  humanity.* 


THE    SEABOAPD    PARISH, 


**  But  we  can't  train  her  then  like  one  of  our  own." 

**  Why  not  1  Could  we  not  give  her  all  the  love  and 
all  the  teaching  1 " 

"  Because  it  would  not  be  fair  to  give  her  the  education 
of  a  lady,  and  then  make  a  servant  of  her." 

**  You  forget  that  the  service  would  be  part  of  her 
training  from  the  first ;  and  she  would  know  no  change 
of  position  in  it  When  we  tell  her  that  she  was  found 
in  the  shrubbery,  we  will  add  that  we  think  God  sent  her 
to  take  care  of  Constance.  I  do  not  beHeve  myself  that 
you  can  have  perfect  service  except  from  a  lady.  Do 
not  forget  the  true  notion  of  service  as  the  essence  ot 
Christianity,  yea,  of  divinity.  It  is  not  education  that 
unfits  for  service  :  it  is  the  want  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  know  that  the  reading  girls  I  have  had,  have, 
as  a  rule,  served  me  worse  than  the  rest." 

"  Would  you  have  called  one  of  those  girls  educated  I 
Or  even  if  they  had  been  educated,  as  any  of  them  might 
well  have  been,  better  than  nine-tenths  of  the  girls  that 
go  to  boarding-schools,  you  must  remember  that  they 
had  never  been  taught  service — the  highest  accomplish- 
ment of  all.  To  that  everything  aids,  when  any  true 
leeling  of  it  is  there.  But  for  service  of  this  high  sort, 
the  education  must  begin  with  the  beginning  of  the 
dawn  of  will.  How  often  have  you  wished  that  you 
had  servants  who  would  believe  in  you,  and  seive  you 
with  the  same  truth  with  which  you  regarded  theml 
The  servants  born  in  a  man's  house  in  the  old  times  were 
more  like  his  children  than  his  servants.  Here  is  a 
chance  for  you,  as  it  were  of  a  servant  born  in  youi 


THEODORA'S    DOOM.  93 

own  house.  Connie  loves  the  child :  the  child  will  love 
Connie,  and  find  her  delight  in  serving  her  like  a  Uttle 
cherub.  Not  one  of  the  maids  to  whom  you  have  re- 
ferred had  ever  been  taught  to  think  service  other  than 
an  unavoidable  necessity,  the  end  of  Hfe  being  to  serve 
yourself,  not  to  ierve  others ;  and  hence  most  of  them 
would  escape  fro.n  it  by  any  marriage  almost  that  they 
had  a  chance  of  making.  I  don't  say  all  servants  are 
like  that;  but  I  do  think  that  most  of  them  are.  I 
know  very  well  that  most  mistresses  are  as  much  to 
blame  for  this  result  as  the  servants  are ;  but  we  are  not 
talking  about  them.  Servants  now-a-days  despise  work, 
and  yet  are  forced  to  do  it — a  most  degrading  condition 
to  be  in.  But  they  would  not  be  in  any  better  condi- 
tion if  delivered  from  the  work.  The  lady  who  despises 
work  is  in  as  bad  a  condition  as  they  are.  The  only 
way  to  set  them  free  is  to  get  them  to  regard  service 
not  only  as  their  duty,  but  as  therefore  honourable, 
and  besides  and  beyond  this,  in  its  own  nature  divine. 
In  America,  the  very  name  of  servant  is  repudiated  as 
inconsistent  with  human  dignity.  There  is  no  dignity 
but  of  service.  How  different  the  whole  notion  of  train- 
ing is  now  from  what  it  was  in  the  middle  ages !  Ser- 
vice was  honourable  then.  No  doubt  we  have  made 
progress  as  a  whole,  but  in  some  things  we  have  degene- 
rated sadly.  The  first  thing  taught  then  was  how  to 
•erve.  No  man  could  rise  to  the  honour  of  knighthood 
without  service.  A  nobleman's  son  even  had  to  wait  on 
his  father,  or  to  go  into  the  family  of  another  nobleman, 
and  wait  upon  him  as  a  page,  standing  behind  his  chaii 


94  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

at  dinner.  This  was  an  honour.  No  notion  of  degra- 
dation was  in  it.  It  was  a  necessary  step  to  higher 
honour.  And  what  was  the  next  higher  honour?  To 
be  set  free  from  service]  No.  To  serve  in  the  harder 
service  of  the  field;  to  be  a  squire  to  some  noble 
knight ;  to  tend  his  horse,  to  clean  his  armour,  to  see 
that  every  rivet  was  sound,  every  buckle  true,  every 
strap  strong;  to  ride  behind  him  and  carry  his  spear, 
and  if  more  than  one  attacked  him,  to  rush  to  his  aid. 
This  service  was  the  more  honourable  because  it  was 
harder,  and  was  the  next  step  to  higher  honour  yet. 
And  what  was  this  higher  honour?  That  of  knighthood. 
Wherein  did  this  knighthood  consist  ?  The  very  word 
means  simply  service.  And  for  what  was  the  knight  thus 
waited  upon  by  his  squire  ]  That  he  might  be  free  to  do 
as  he  pleased?  No,  but  that  he  might  be  free  to  be  the 
servant  of  all.  By  being  a  squire  first,  the  servant  of  one, 
he  learned  to  rise  to  the  higher  rank,  that  of  servant  of 
all.  His  horse  was  tended,  his  armour  observed,  his 
sword  and  spear  and  shield  held  to  his  hand,  that  he 
might  have  no  trouble  looking  after  himself,  but  might 
be  free,  strong,  unwearied,  to  shoot  like  an  arrow  to 
the  rescue  of  any  and  every  one  who  needed  liis  ready 
aid.  There  was  a  grand  heart  of  Christianity  in  that 
old  chivalry,  notwithstanding  a*ll  its  abuses,  which  must 
be  no  more  laid  to  its  charge  than  the  burning  of  Jews 
and  heretics  to  Christianity.  It  was  the  lack  of  it,  not 
the  presence  of  it,  that  occasioned  the  abuses  than  co- 
existed with  it.  Train  our  Theodora  as  a  holy  child- 
servant,   and    there   ^viil   be   no   need   to  restram  a'ly 


Theodora's  doom.  95 


impulse  of  wise  affection  from  pouring  itself  forth  upon 
her.  My  firm  belief  is.  that  we  should  then  love  and 
honour  her  far  more  than  if  we  made  her  just  hke  one 
of  our  own.** 

"  But  what  if  she  should  turn  out  utterly  unfit  ^or 
it?" 

**  Ah  !  then  would  come  an  obstacle.  But  it  will  not 
come  till  that  discovery  is  made.'* 

"  But  if  we  should  be  going  wrong  all  the  time  I " 

"  Now  there  comes  the  kind  of  care  that  never  troubles 
me,  and  which  I  so  strongly  object  to.  It  won't  hurt 
her  anyhow.  And  we  ought  always  to  act  upon  the 
ideal ;  it  is  the  only  safe  ground  of  action.  When  ths  t 
which  contradicts  and  resists,  and  would  ruin  our  idea , 
opposes  us,  then  we  must  take  rrieasures;  but  not  tii( 
then  can  we  take  measures,  or  know  what  measures  i\ 
may  be  necessary  to  take.  But  the  ideal  itself  is  the 
only  thing  worth  striving  after.  Remember  what  our 
Lord  himself  said :  '  Be  ye  therefore  perfect,  even  as 
your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  is  perfect.*  "  ^ 

"  Well,  I  will  think  about  it,  Harry.  There  is  time 
enough." 

"  Plenty.  No  time  only  not  to  think  about  it.  The 
more  you  think  about  it  the  better.  If  a  thing  be  a  good 
thing,  the  more  you  think  about  it  the  better  it  will 
look ;  for  its  real  nature  will  go  on  coming  out  and 
showing  itself.  I  cannot  doubt  that  you  will  soon  see 
how  good  it  is.** 

We  then  went  home.  It  was  only  two  days  after  thai 
my  wife  said  to  rae— 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


"  I  am  more  than  reconciled  to  your  plan,  husband. 
It  seems  to  me  delightful." 

When  we  re-entered  Connie's  room,  we  found  that  her 
baby  had  just  waked,  and  she  had  managed  to  get  one 
wm  under  her,  and  was  trying  to  comfort  her,  for  sb« 
was  crying. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A   SPRING  CHAPTER. 

[ORE  especially  now  in  my  old  age,  I  find 
myself  "to  a  lingering  motion  bound."  I 
would,  if  I  might,  tell  a  tale  day  by  day, 
hour  by  hour,  following  the  movement  of 
the'^year  in  its  sweet  change  of  seasons.  This  may  not 
be,  but  I  will  indulge  myself  now  so  far  as  to  call  this 
a  spring  chapter,  and  so  pass  to  the  summer,  when  my 
reader  will  see  why  I  kave  called  my  story  *'  The  Sea- 
board Parish." 

I  was  out  one  day  amongst  my  people,  and  I  founa 
two  precious  things ;  one,  a  lovely  little  fact,  the  other  a 
lovely  little  primrose.  This  was  a  pinched,  dwarfish  thing, 
for  the  spring  was  but  a  baby  herself,  and  so  could  not 
mother  more  than  a  brave-hearted  weakling.  The  frost 
lay  all  about  it  under  the  hedge,  but  its  rough  leaves  kept 
it  j  ist  warm  enough,  and  hardly.  Now,  I  should  never 
have  pulled  the  little  darling ;  it  would  have  seemed  a 


98  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


Vind  of  small  sacrilege  committed  on  the  church  of 
nature,  seeing  she  had  but  this  one  ;  only  with  ray  sickly 
cub  at  home,  I  felt  justified  in  ravening  like  a  beast  of 
prey.  I  even  went  so  far  in  my  greed  as  to  dig  up  the 
little  plant  with  my  fingers,  and  bear  it,  leaves  and  ^''' 
with  a  lump  of  earth  about  it  to  keep  it  alive,  home  to 
my  little  woman — a  present  from  the  outside  world 
which  slie  loved  so  much.  And  as  I  went  there  dawned 
upon  me  the  recollection  of  a  little  mirror  in  which,  if  I 
could  find  it,  she  would  see  it  still  more  lovely  than  in  a 
direct  looking  at  itself.  So  I  set  myself  to  find  it ;  for 
it  lay  m  fragments  in  the  drawers  and  cabinets  of  my 
memory.  And  before  I  got  home  I  had  found  all  the 
pieces  and  put  them  together ;  and  then  it  was  a  lovely 
little  sonnet  which  a  friend  of  mine  had  written  and 
allowed  me  to  see  many  years  before.  I  was  in  the  way 
of  writing  verses  myself;  but  I  should  have  been  proud 
to  have  written  this  one.  I  never  could  have  done  that 
Yet,  as  far  as  I  knew,  it  had  never  seen  the  light  through 
the  windows  of  print  It  was  with  some  difficulty  that 
I  got  it  all  right ;  but  I  thought  I  had  succeeded  very 
nearly,  if  not  absolutely,  and  I  said  it  over  and  over,  till 
I  was  sure  I  should  not  spoil  its  music  or  its  meaning  by 
halting  in  the  delivery  of  't 

*'  Look  here,  my  Connie,  what  I  have  brought  you,"  I 
said. 

She  held  out  her  two  white,  half-transparent  hands, 
♦ook  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  human  baby,  and  looked  at  it 
tovingly  till  the  tears  came  in  her  eyes.  She  would 
have  made  a  tender  picture,  as  she  then  la}',  with  her  two 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  99 

hands  up,  holding  the  little  beauty  before  her  eyes. 
Then  I  said  what  I  have  already  written  about  the  mirror, 
and  repeated  the  sonnet  to  h^r.  Here  it  is,  and  my 
readers  will  owe  me  gratitude  for  it  My  friend  had 
found  the  snowdrop  in  February,  and  in  frost.  Indeed 
he  told  me  that  there  was  a  tolerable  sprinkling  of  snow 
upon  the  ground  : — 

•*  I  know  not  what  among  the  grass  thou  art. 
Thy  nature  no^"  "thy  substance,  fairest  flower. 
Nor  what  to  other  eyes  thou  hast  of  power 

To  send  thine  image  through  them  to  the  heart  $ 

But  when  I  push  the  frosty  leaves  apart. 
And  see  thee  hiding  in  thy  wintry  bower, 
Thou  growest  up  within  me  from  that  hour. 

And  through  the  snow  I  with  the  spring  depart. 

**I  have  no  words.     But  fragrant  is  the  breath, 

Pale  Beauty,  of  thy  second  life  within. 
There  is  a  wind  that  cometh  for  thy  death. 

But  thou  a  life  immortal  dost  begin, 
Where,  in  one  soul,  which  is  thy  heaven,  shall  dwell 
Thy  spirit,  beautiful  Unspeakable  I  " 

•*  Will  you  say  it  again,  papa  ? "  said  Connie ;  "  I  do 
not  quite  understand  it" 

"  I  will,  my  dear.  But  I  will  do  something  better  as 
well.  I  will  go  and  write  it  out  for  you,  as  soon  as  I 
have  giv^en  you  something  else  that  I  have  brought." 

"  Thank  you^  papa.  And  please  write  it  in  your  best 
Sunday  hand,  that  I  may  read  it  quite  easily.** 

I  promised,  and  repeated  the  poem. 

"1  understand  it  a  little  better,"  she  said;  "but  the 
meaning  is  just  like  the  primrose  itself,  hidden  up  in  its 
green  leaves.     When  you  gire  it  me  in  writing,  I  will 


lOO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

push  them  apart  and  find  it  Now,  tell  me  what  else 
you  have  brought  me." 

I  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  resemblance  the  child 
•aw  between  the  plant  and  the  sonnet ;  but  I  did  not  say 
anything  in  praise ;  I  only  expressed  satisfaction.  Before 
I  began  ray  story,  Wynnie  came  in  and  sat  down  with 
us. 

*'  I  have  been  to  see  Miss  Aylmer,  this  morning,"  I 
said.  "  She  feels  the  loss  of  her  mother  very  much,  porr 
thing." 

"  How  old  was  she,  papa  1 "  asked  Connie. 

"  She  was  over  ninety,  my  dear ;  but  she  had  forgotten 
how  much  herself,  and  her  daughter  could  not  be  sure 
about  it  She  was  a  peculiar  old  lady,  you  know.  She 
once  reproved  me  for  inadvertently  putting  my  hat  on 
the  tablecloth.  *  Mr  Shafton,'  she  said,  *  was  one  of  the 
old  school;  he  would  never  have  done  that  I  don't 
know  what  the  world  is  coming  to.' " 

My  two  girls  laughed  at  the  idea  of  their  papa  being 
reproved  for  bad  manners. 

"  What  did  you  say,  papa  1  **  they  asked. 

**  I  begged  her  pardon,  and  lifted  it  instantly.  *  Oh, 
it's  all  right  now,  my  dear,'  she  said,  *when  you've 
taken  it  up  again.  But  I  like  good  manners,  though  I 
live  in  a  cottage  now.'  ** 

**  Had  she  seen  better  days,  then  1  **  asked  Wynnie. 

•*  She  was  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  a  farmer's  widow. 
I  suppose  the  chief  difference  in  her  mode  of  life  was 
that  she  lived  in  a  cottage  instead  of  a  good-sized  farm- 
house." 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  :oi 


•* Cut  what  is  the  story  you  have  to  tell  us?" 

"  I  'm  coming  to  that  when  you  have  done  with  youf 
questions." 

"  We  have  done,  papa." 

**  After  talking  a  while,  during  wnich  she  went 
bustling  a  little  about  the  cottage,  in  order  to  hide 
her  feelings,  as  I  thought,  for  she  has  a  good  deal  of 
her  mother's  sense  of  dignity  about  her, — but  I  want 
your  mother  to  hear  the  story.  Run  and  fetch  her, 
Wynnie." 

"  Oh,  do  make  haste,  Wynnie,"  said  Connie. 

When  Ethelwyn  came,  I  went  on. 

"  Miss  Aylmer  was  bustling  a  little  about  the  cottage, 
putting  things  to  rights.  All  at  once  she  gave  a  cry  of 
surprise,  and  said,  *  Here  it  is  at  last ! '  She  had  taken 
up  a  stuff  dress  of  her  mother's,  and  was  holding  it  in  one 
hand,  while  with  the  othei  she  drew  from  the  pocket— 
what  do  you  think?" 

Various  guesses  were  hazarded. 

"No,  no — nothing  like  it.  I  know  you  could  never 
guess.  Therefore  it  would  not  be  fair  to  keep  you  trying. 
A  great  iron  horseshoe.  The  old  woman  of  ninety  years, 
had  in  the  pocket  of  the  dress  that  she  was  wearing  at 
the  very  moment  when  she  died,  for  her  death  was  sudden, 
an  iron  horseshoe." 

"What  did  it  mean?     Could  her  daughter  explain  it?" 

"  That  she  proceeded  at  once  to  do.  *  Do  you  re» 
member,  sir,'  she  said,  *  how  that  horseshoe  used  to  hang 
on  a  nail  over  the  chimney-piece  ? '  *  I  do  remember 
having  observed  it  the»-e,'  I  answered ;  for  once  when  I 


.IV*-^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


took  notice  of  it,  I  said  to  your  mother,  laughing,  "I 
hope  you  are  not  afraid  of  witches,  Mrs  Ayhner  1 "  And 
she  looked  a  little  offended,  and  assured  mc  to  the  con- 
trary.' *  Well,*  her  daugliter  went  on,  *  about  three 
months  ago,  I  missed  it.  My  mother  would  not  tell  me 
anything  about  it.  And  here  it  is  I  I  can  hardly  think 
she  can  have  carried  it  about  all  that  time  without  me 
finding  it  out,  but  I  don't  know.  Here  it  is  anyhow. 
Perhaps  when  she  felt  death  drawing  nearer,  she  took  it 
from  somewhere  where  she  had  hidden  it,  and  put  it  in 
her  pocket.  If  I  had  found  it  in  time,  I  would  have  put 
it  in  her  coffin  ? '  *  But  why  1 '  I  asked.  '  Do  tell  me  the 
story  about  it,  if  you  know  it'  *  I  know  it  quite  well,  for 
she  told  me  all  about  it  once.  It  is  the  shoe  of  a 
favourite  mare  of  my  father's — one  he  used  to  ride  when 
he  went  courting  my  mother.  My  grandfather  did  not 
like  to  have  a  young  man  coming  about  the  house,  and 
so  he  came  after  the  old  folks  were  ^  jne  to  bed.  But  he 
had  a  long  way  to  come,  and  he  rode  that  mare.  She 
had  to  go  over  som-e  stones  to  get  to  the  stable,  and  my 
mother  used  to  spread  straw  there,  for  it  was  under  the 
window  of  my  grandfather's  room,  that  her  shoes  mightn't 
make  a  noise  and  wake  him.  And  that  *s  one  of  the 
shoes,'  she  said,  holding  it  up  to  me.  *  When  the  mare 
died,  my  mother  begged  my  father  for  the  one  off  her 
near  fore-foot,  where  she  had  so  often  stood  and  patted 
her  neck  when  my  father  was  mounted  to  ride  home 
again.'*' 

*•  But  it  was  very  naughty  of  her,  wasn't   it,"  said 
Wynnie,  "  to  do  that  without  her  father's  knowledge  I** 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  lOJ 

**  I  don't  say  it  was  right,  my  dear.  But  in  looking  at 
what  is  wrong,  we  ought  to  look  for  the  beginning  of  tlie 
wrong;  and  possibly  we  might  find  that  in  this  case 
farther  back.  If,  for  instance,  a  father  isn't  a  father,  we 
must  not  be  too  hard  in  blaming  the  child  for  not  being 
a  child.  The  father's  part  has  to  come  first  and  teach 
the  child's  part.  Now,  if  I  might  guess  from  what  I 
know  of  the  old  lady,  in  whom  probably  it  was  much 
softened,  her  father  was  very  possibly  a  hard,  unreason- 
ing, and  unreasonable  man — such  that  it  scarcely  ever 
came  into  the  daughter's  head  that  she  had  anything  else 
to  do  with  regard  to  him  than  beware  of  the  consequences 
of  letting  him  know  that  she  had  a  lover.  The  whole 
thing,  I  allow,  was  wrong  ;  but  I  suspect  the  father  was 
first  to  blame,  and  far  more  to  blame  than  the  daughter. 
And  that  is  the  more  likely  from  the  high  character  of 
the  old  dame,  and  the  romantic  way  in  which  she  clung 
to  the  memory  of  the  courtship.  A  true  heart  only  does 
not  grow  old.  And  I  have,  therefore,  no  doubt  that  the 
marriage  was  a  happy  one.  Besides,  I  daresay,  it  was 
very  much  the  custom  of  the  country  where  they  were, 
and  that  makes  some  difference." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure,  papa,  you  wouldn't  like  any  of  us 
to  go  and  do  like  that,"  said  Wynnie. 

"Assuredly  not,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  laughing. 
*•  Nor  have  I  any  fear  of  it  But  shall  I  tell  you  what 
I  think  would  be  one  of  the  chief  things  to  trouble  me 
if  you  did  r 

**  If  you  like,  papa.  But  it  sounds  rather  dreadfuJ  to 
hear  such  an  j/j"  said  Wynnie. 


104  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  It  would  be  to  think  how  much  I  had  failed  o! 
being  such  a  father  to  you  as  I  ought  to  be,  and  as  I 
wished  to  be,  if  it  should  prove  at  all  possible  for  you 
to  do  such  a  thing.'* 

"  It  *s  too  dreadful  to  talk  about,  papa,"  said  Wynnie  i 
and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

She  was  a  strange  child,  this  Wynnie  of  ours.  Whereas 
most  people  are  in  danger  of  thinking  themselves  in  the 
right,  or  insisting  that  they  are  whether  they  think  so  or 
not,  she  was  always  thinking  herself  in  the  wrong.  Nay 
more,  she  always  expected  to  find  herself  in  the  wrong. 
If  the  perpetrator  of  any  mischief  was  inquired  after,  she 
always  looked  into  her  own  bosom  to  see  whether  she 
could  not  with  justice  aver  that  she  was  the  doer  of  the 
deed.  I  believe  she  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  she  had 
been  deceiving  me  already,  and  deserved  to  be  driven 
out  of  the  house.  This  came  of  an  over-sensitiveness, 
accompanied  by  a  general  dissatisfaction  with  herself, 
which  was  not  upheld  by  a  sufficient  faith  in  the  divine 
sympathy,  or  sufficient  confidence  of  final  purification. 
She  never  spared  herself;  and  if  she  was  a  little  severe 
on  the  younger  ones  sometimes,  no  one  was  yet  more 
indulgent  to  them.  She  would  eat  all  their  hard  crusts 
for  *bem,  always  give  them  the  best  and  take  the  worst 
for  herself.  If  there  was  any  part  in  the  dish  that  she 
was  helping  that  she  thought  nobody  would  jike,  she 
invariably  assigned  it  to  her  own  share.  It  looked  like 
a  determined  self-mortification  sometimes  ;  but  tliat  was 
no*:  it.  She  did  not  care  for  her  own  comfort  enough  to 
fee  1  it  any  mortification ;  though  I  observed  that  when 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  lOS 

her  mother  or  I  helped  her  to  anything  nice,  she  ate  it 
with  as  much  relish  as  the  youngest  of  the  party.  And 
her  sweet  smile  was  always  ready  to  meet  the  least  kind- 
ness that  was  offered  her.  Her  obedience  was  perfect, 
and  had  been  so  for  very  many  years,  as  far  as  we  could 
3ee.  Indeed,  not  since  she  was  the  merest  child  had 
there  been  any  contest  between  us.  Now,  of  course, 
there  was  no  demand  of  obedience :  she  was  simply  the 
best  earthly  friend  that  her  father  and  mother  had.  It 
often  caused  me  some  passing  anxiety  to  think  that  her 
temperament,  as  well  as  her  devotion  to  her  home,  might 
cause  her  great  suftering  some  day;  but  when  those 
thoughts  came,  I  just  gave  her  to  God  to  take  care  of. 
Her  mother  sometimes  said  to  her  that  she  would  make 
an  excellent  wife  for  a  poor  man.  She  would  brighten 
up  greatly  at  this,  taking  it  for  a  compliment  of  the  best 
sort.  And  she  did  not  forget  it,  as  the  sequel  will  show. 
She  would  choose  to  sit  with  one  candle  lit  when  there 
were  two  on  the  table,  wasting  her  eyes  to  save  the 
candles.  "Which  will  you  have  for  dinner  to-day,  papa, 
roast  beef  or  boiled  1 "  she  asked  me  once,  when  her 
mother  was  too  unwell  to  attend  to  the  housekeeping. 
And  when  I  replied  that  I  would  have  whichever  she 
liked  best — "  The  boiled  beef  lasts  longest,  I  think,"  she 
said.  Yet  she  was  not  only  as  hberal  and  kind  as  any 
to  the  poor,  but  she  was,  which  is  rarer,  and  perhaps 
more  important  for  the  final  formation  of  a  character, 
carefully  just  to  every  one  with  whom  she  had  any  deal- 
ings. Her  sense  of  law  was  very  strong.  Law  with  her 
was  something  absolute,  and  not  to  be  questioned.     lo 


Io6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

her  childhood  there  was  one  lady  to  whom  for  years  she 
showed  a  decided  aversion,  and  we  could  not  understand 
it,  for  it  was  the  most  inoffensive  Miss  Boulderstone.  When 
she  was  nearly  grown  up,  one  of  us  happening  to  allude 
to  the  fact,  she  volunteered  an  explanation.  Miss  Boul- 
derstone had  happened  to  call  one  day  when  Wynnie, 
then  between  three  and  four,  was  in  disgrace — in  tht 
corner^  in  fact.  Miss  Boulderstone  interceded  for  her; 
and  this  was  the  whole  front  of  her  offending. 

**  I  was  so  angry ! "  she  said.  "  *  As  if  my  papa  did 
not  know  best  when  I  ought  to  come  out  of  the  corner  !  * 
I  said  to  myself.  And  I  couldn't  bear  her  for  ever  so 
long  after  that." 

Miss  Boulderstone,  however,  though  not  very  interest- 
ing, was  quite  a  favourite  before  she  died.  She  left 
Wynnie — for  she  and  her  brother  were  the  last  of  their 
race — a  death's-head  watch,  which  had  been  in  the 
family  she  did  not  know  how  long.  I  think  it  is  as  old 
as  Queen  Elizabeth's  time.  I  took  it  to  London  to  a 
skilful  man,  and  had  it  as  well  repaired  as  its  age  would 
admit  of;  and  it  has  gone  ever  since,  though  not  with 
the  greatest  accuracy ;  for  what  could  be  expected  of  an 
old  death's-head,  the  most  transitory  thing  in  creation  1 
Wynnie  wears  it  to  this  day,  and  wouldn't  part  with  it 
for  the  best  watch  in  the  world 

I  tell  the  reader  all  this  about  my  daughter  that  he 
may  be  the  more  able  to  understand  what  will  follow  in 
due  time.  He  will  think  that  as  yet  my  story  has  been 
nothing  but  promises.  Let  him  only  hope  that  I  will 
fulfil  them,  and  I  shall  be  content 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  lOj 


Mr  Boulderstone  did  not  long  outlive  his  sister. 
Though  the  old  couple,  for  they  were  rather  old  before  they 
died,  if  indeed,  they  were  not  born  old,  which  I  strongly 
suspect,  being  the  last  of  a  decaying  family  that  had  not 
left  the  land  on  which  they  were  born  for  a  great  many 
generations  — though  the  old  people  had  not,  of  what  the 
French  call  sentiments,  one  between  them,  they  were  yet 
capable  of  a  stronger  and,  I  had  almost  said,  more  ro- 
mantic attachment,  than  many  couples  who  have  married 
from  love  ;  for  the  lady's  sole  trouble  in  dying  was  what 
her  brother  would  do  without  her ;  and  from  the  day  of 
her  death,  he  grew  more  and  more  dull  and  seemingly 
stupid.  Nothing  gave  him  any  pleasure  but  having 
Wynnie  to  dinner  with  him.  I  knew  that  it  must  be 
very  dull  for  her,  but  she  went  often,  and  I  never  heard 
her  complain  of  it,  though  she  certainly  did  looked  fagged 
— not  bored^  observe,  but  fagged — showing  that  she  had 
been  exerting  herself  to  meet  the  difficulties  of  the  situa- 
tion. When  the  good  man  died,  we  found  that  he  had  left 
ail  his  money  in  my  hands,  in  trust  for  the  poor  of  the 
parish,  to  be  applied  in  an/r  way  I  thought  best  This 
involved  me  in  much  perplexity,  for  nothing  is  more 
difficult  than  to  ma,ke  moneys  useful  to  the  poor.  But  I 
was  very  glad  of  it,  notwithstanding. 

My  own  means  were  not  so  large  as  my  readers  may 
think.  The  property  my  w  fe  brought  me  was  much  e^^ 
C'ivibered.  With  the  help  of  her  private  fortune,  ancf 
the  income  of  several  years,  (not  my  income  from  the 
church,  it  may  be  as  well  to  •  ly),  I  succeeded  in  clearing 
off  the  encumbrances.     But  even  then  there  remained 


I08  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

much  to  be  done,  if  I  would  be  the  good  steward  that 
was  not  to  be  ashamed  at  his  Lord's  coming.  First  of 
all  there  were  many  cottages  to  be  built  for  the  labourers 
on  the  estate.  If  the  farmers  would  not,  or  could  not, 
help,  I  must  do  it ;  for  to  provide  decent  dwellings  for 
them,  was  clearly  one  of  the  divine  conditions  in  the 
righteous  tenure  of  property,  whatever  the  human  might 
be ;  for  it  was  not  for  myself  alone,  or  for  myself  chiefly, 
that  this  property  was  given  to  me ;  it  was  for  those  who 
lived  upon  it.  Therefore  I  laid  out  what  money  I  could, 
not  only  in  getting  all  the  land  clearly  in  its  right  relation 
to  its  owner,  but  in  doing  the  best  I  could  for  those 
attached  to  it  who  could  not  help  themselves.  And 
when  I  hint  to  my  reader  that  I  had  some  conscience  in 
paying  my  curate,  though,  as  they  had  no  children,  they 
did  not  require  so  much  as  I  should  otherwise  have  felt 
compelled  to  give  them,  he  will  easily  see  that  as  my 
family  grew  up  I  could  not  have  so  raucti  to  give  away  oi 
my  own  as  I  should  have  liked,  l^herefore  this  trust  of  the 
good  Mr  Boulderstone  was  the  more  acceptable  to  me. 

One  word  more  ere  I  finish  this  cha43ter.  —  I  should 
not  Hke  my  friends  to  think  that  I  had  got  tired  of  cir 
Christmas  gatherings,  because  I  have  made  no  mention 
of  one  this  year.  It  had  been  pretermitted  for  the  first 
time,  because  of  my  daughter's  illness.  It  was  mucn 
eabier  to  give  them  now  than  when  I  lived  at  the  vicar- 
age, for  there  was  plenty  of  room  in  the  old  hall.  But 
my  curate,  Mr  Weir,  still  held  a  similar  gathering  there 
every  Easter. 

Another  one  word  more  about  him.   Some  may  wondei 


A    SPRING    CHAPTER.  lOg 

why  I  have  not  mentioned  him  or  my  sister,  especially  in 
connexion  with  Connie's  accident.  The  fact  was,  that 
he  had  taken,  or  rather  I  had  given  him,  a  long  holiday. 
Martha  had  had  several  disappointing  illnesses,  and  her 
general  health  had  suffered  so  much  in  consequence  that 
there  was  even  some  fear  of  her  lungs,  and  a  winter  in 
the  south  of  France  had  been  strongly  recommended. 
Upon  this  I  came  in  with  more  than  a  recommendation, 
and  insisted  that  they  should  go.  They  had  started  in 
the  beginning  of  October,  and  had  not  returned  up  to  the 
time  of  which  I  am  now  about  to  write — somewhere  in 
the  beginning  of  the  month  of  April.  But  my  sister  was 
now  almost  quite  well,  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  think  that 
I  should  soon  have  a  little  more  leisure  for  such  small 
Uterary  pursuits  as  I  dehghted  in — to  my  own  enrichment, 
and  consequently  to  the  good  of  my  parishioners  and 
friends.  • 


CHAPTER   X. 

AN    IMPORTANT    LETTER. 

[I  was,  then,  in  the  beginning  of  April  that  I 
received  one  morning  an  epistle  from  an  old 
college  friend  of  mine,  with  whom  I  had  re- 
newed my  acquaintance  of  late,  through  the 
pleasure  which  he  was  kind  enough  to  say  he  had  derived 
from  reading  a  little  book  of  mine  upon  the  relation  of 
the  mind  of  St  Paul  to  the  gospel  story.  His  name  was 
Shepherd — a  good  name  for  a  clergyman.  In  his  case 
both  Christian  name  and  patronymic  might  remind  him 
well  of  his  duty.  David  Shepherd  ought  to  be  a  good 
clergyman. 

As  soon  as  I  had  read  the  letter,  I  went  with  it  open 
in  my  hand  to  find  my  wife. 

"  Here  is  Shepherd,"  I  said,  "with  a  clerical  sore-throat, 
and  forced  to  give  up  his  duty  for  a  whole  summer.  He 
writes  to  ask  me  whether,  as  he  understands  I  have  a 
curate  as  good  as  myself — that  is  what  the  old  fellow  says 


AN     IMPORTANT    LETTER.  Ill 

— it  might  not  suit  me  to  take  my  family  to  his  place 
for  the  summer.  He  assures  me  I  should  like  it,  and 
that  it  would  do  us  all  good.  His  house,  he  says,  is  large 
enough  to  hold  us,  and  he  knows  I  should  not  like  to  be 
without  duty  wherever  I  was.  And  so  on.  Read  the 
lettei  for  yourself,  and  turn  it  over  in  your  mind,  Weir 
will  come  back  so  fresh  and  active  that  it  will  be  no 
oppression  to  him  to  take  the  whole  of  the  duty  here. 
I  will  run  and  ask  Turner  whether  it  would  be  safe  to 
move  Connie,  and  whether  the  sea-air  would  be  good  for 
her." 

**  One  would  think  you  were  only  twenty,  husband — • 
you  make  up  your  mind  so  quickly,  and  are  in  such  a 
hurry." 

The  fact  was,  a  vision  of  the  sea  had  rushed  in  upon 
me.  It  was  many  years  since  I  had  seen  the  sea,  and 
the  thought  of  looking  on  it  once  more,  in  its  most 
glorious  show,  the  Atlantic  itself,  with  nothing  between 
us  and  America  but  the  round  of  the  ridgy  water,  had 
excited  me  so  that  my  wife's  reproof,  if  reproof  it  was, 
was  quite  necessary  to  bring  me  to  my  usually  quiet  and 
sober  senses.  I  laughed,  begged  old  grannie's  pardon, 
and  set  off  to  see  Turner  notwithstanding,  leaving  her  to 
read  and  ponder  Shepherd's  letter. 

"What  do  you  think,  Turner T'  I  said,  and  told  him 
the  case. 

He  looked  rather  grave. 

**  When  would  you  think  of  going  t  *'  he  asked. 

**  About  the  beginning  of  June." 

••Nearly  two  months,'*  he  said,  thoughtfully.     "And 


112  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Miss  Connie  was  not  the  worse  for  getting  on  the  sofa 
yesterday  ? " 

«*  The  better,  I  do  think.* 

**  Has  she  had  any  increase  of  pain  since  t  * 

•*  None,  I  quite  believe ;  for  I  questioned  her  as  to 
that." 

He  thought  again.  He  was  a  careful  man,  although 
young. 

**  It  is  a  long  journey.* 

"  She  could  make  it  by  easy  stages.* 

**  It  would  certainly  do  her  good  to  breathe  the  sea- 
air  and  have  such  a  thorough  change  in  every  way — if 
only  it  could  be  managed  without  fatigue  and  suffering. 
I  think,  if  you  can  get  her  up  every  day  between  this 
and  that,  we  shall  be  justified  in  trying  it  at  least.  The 
sooner  you  get  her  out  of  doors  the  better  too ;  but  the 
weather  is  scarcely  fit  for  that  yet." 

"  A  good  deal  will  depend  on  how  she  is  inclined,  I 
suppose." 

"  Yes.  But  in  her  case  you  must  not  mind  that  too 
much.  An  invalid's  instincts  as  to  eating  and  drinking 
are  more  to  be  depended  upon  than  those  of  a  healthy 
person  ;  but  it  is  not  so,  I  think,  with  regard  to  anything 
involving  effort.  That  she  must  sometimes  be  urged  to. 
She  must  not  judge  that  by  inclination.  I  have  had, 
in  my  short  practice,  two  patients  who  considered  them- 
selves bedlars^  as  you  will  find  the  common  people  in 
the  part  you  are  going  to,  call  them — bedridden,  that  is. 
One  of  them  I  persuaded  to  make  the  attempt  to  rise, 
and  although  her  sense  of  inability  was  anything  but 


AN    IMPURTANT    LETTER.  II3 

^cigned,  and  she  will  be  a  sufferer  to  the  end  of  her 
days,  yet  she  goes  about  the  house  without  much  incon- 
venience, and  I  suspect  is  not  only  physically  but  mor- 
ally the  better  for  it.  The  other  would  not  consent  to 
try,  and  I  believe  lies  there  stilL" 

"  The  will  has  more  to  with  most  things  than  people 
generally  suppose,"  I  said.  "  Could  you  manage,  now, 
do  you  think,  supposing  we  resolve  to  make  the  experi- 
ment, to  accompany  us  the  first  stage  or  two  V 

"  It  is  very  likely  I  could.  Only  you  must  not  depend 
upon  me.  I  cannot  tell  beforehand.  You  yoursell 
would  teach  me  that  I  must  not  be  a  respecter  of  per- 
sons, you  know." 

I  returned  to  my  wife.     She  was  in  Connie's  room. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
it  ]" 

**  Of  what  V  she  asked.  ^ 

**  Why,  of  Shepherd's  letter,  of  course,"  1  answered. 

"  I  've  been  ordering  the  dinner  since,  Harry." 

"  The  dinner ! "  I  returned,  with  some  show  of  cpn- 
tempt,  for  I  knew  my  wife  was  only  teasing  me. 
"  What's  the  dinner  to  the  Atlantic  V 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  Atlantic,  papa?"  said 
Connie,  from  whose  roguish  eyes  I  could  see  that  her 
mother  had  told  her  all  about  it,  and  that  sA€  was  not 
disinclined  to  get  up,  if  only  she  could. 

"The  Atlantic,  my  dear,  is  the  name  given  to  that 
portion  of  the  waters  of  the  globe  which  divides  Europe 
from  America.  I  will  fetch  you  the  Universal  Gazetteer, 
if  you  would  like  to  consult  it  on  the  subject." 


114  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**0h,  papal"  laughed  Connie;  "you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  know  what  I  mean  too,  you  squirrel  !** 

**  But  do  you  really  mean,  papa,"  she  said,  "  that  you 
will  take  me  to  the  Atlantic  ]'* 

"  If  you  will  only  oblige  me  by  getting  well  enough  to 
go  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  poor  child  half  rose  on  her  elbow,  but  sank  back 
again  with  a  moan,  which  I  took  for  a  cry  of  pain.  I 
was  beside  her  in  a  moment. 

**  My  darling  !     You  have  hurt  yourself!** 

"  Oh  no,  papa.  I  felt  for  the  moment  as  if  I  could 
get  up  if  I  Uked.  But  I  soon  found  that  I  hadn't  any 
back  or  legs.     Oh  !  what  a  plague  I  am  to  you  I" 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  are  the  nicest  plaything  in  the 
world,  Connie.     One  always  knows  where  to  find  you." 

She  half-laughed  and  half-cried,  and  the  two  halves 
made  a  very  bewitching  whole. 

"  But,"  I  went  on,  "  I  mean  to  try  whether  my  dolly 
won't  bear  moving.  One  thing  is  clear,  I  can't  go  with- 
out it  Do  you  think  you  could  be  got  on  the  sofa  to- 
day without  hurting  you  V* 

**  I  am  sure  I  could,  papa.  I  feel  better  to-day  than 
I  have  felt  yet.  Mamma,  do  send  for  Susan,  and  get 
me  up  before  dinner." 

When  I  went  in  after  a  couple  of  hours  oi  so,  I  found 
her  lying  on  the  couch,  propped  up  with  pillows.  She 
lay  looking  out  of  the  window  on  the  lawn  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  A  smile  hovered  about  her  bloodless 
iips,  and  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  though  very  gray,  looked 


AN    IMPORTANT    LETTER,  II5 

funny.  Her  white  face  showed  the  whiter  because  her 
dark  brown  hair  Wvis  ail  about  it.  We  had  had  to  rut 
her  hair,  but  it  had  grown  to  her  neck  again. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  count  the  daisies  on  the  lawn," 
she  said. 

*'  What  a  sharp  sight  you  must  have,  child  !  " 

"  I  see  them  all  as  clear  as  if  they  were  enamelled  on 
that  table  before  me." 

1  was  not  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  daisies  as  some 
people  are.  Neither  did  I  keep  the  grass  quite  so  close 
shaved. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  "I  could  not  count  them,  for  it 
gave  me  the  fidgets  in  my  feet'* 

"  You  don't  say  so  !"  I  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise,  but  concluding 
that  I  was  only  making  a  little  of  my  mild  fun  at  her  ex- 
pense, she  laughed. 

"Yes.     Isn't  it  a  wonderful  fact?"  she  said. 

"It  is  a  fact,  my  dear,  that  I  feel  ready  to  go  on  my 
knees  and  thank  God  for.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  take 
it  as  a  sign  that  you  are  beginning  to  recover  a  little. 
But  we  mustn't  make  too  much  of  it,  lest  I  should  be 
mistaken,"  I  added,  checking  myself,  for  I  feared  excit- 
ing her  too  much. 

But  she  lay  very  still ;  only  the  tears  rose  slowly  and 
lay  shimmering  in  her  eyes.  After  about  five  minutes, 
during  which  we  were  both  silent, — 

"Oh,  papa!"  she  said,  "to  think  of  ever  walkirig  om 
with  you  pgain,  and  feeling  the  wind  on  my  face!  lean 
hardly  believe  it  possible." 


Il5  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"It  is  SO  mild,  I  think  you  might  have  half  that, 
pleasure  at  once,"  I  answered. 

And  I  opened  the  window,  let  the  spring  air  gently 
move  her  hair  for  one  moment,  and  then  shut  it  again. 
Connie  breathed  deep,  and  said  after  a  little  pause, — 

**  I  had  no  idea  how  delightful  it  was.  To  think  that 
I  have  been  in  the  way  of  breathing  that  every  moment 
for  so  many  years,  and  never  thought  about  it ! " 

"  It  is  not  always  just  like  that  in  this  climate.  But  I 
ought  not  to  have  made  that  remark  when  I  wanted  to 
make  this  other :  that  I  suspect  we  shall  find  some  day 
that  the  loss  of  the  human  paradise  consists  chiefly  in  the 
closing  of  the  human  eyes ;  that  at  least  far  more  of  it 
than  people  think  remains  about  us  still,  only  we  are  so 
filled  with  foolish  desires  and  evil  cares,  that  we  cannot 
see  or  hear,  cannot  even  smell  or  taste  the  pleasant 
things  round  about  us.  We  have  need  to  pray  in  regard 
to  the  right  receiving  of  the  things  of  the  senses  even, 
'Lord,  open  thou  our  hearts  to  understand  thy  word;' 
for  each  of  these  things  is  as  certainly  a  word  of  God  as 
Jesus  is  The  Word  of  God.  He  has  made  nothing  in 
vain.  All  is  for  our  teaching.  Shall  I  tell  you  what 
such  a  breath  of  fresh  air  makes  me  think  ofV* 

"  It  comes  to  me,"  said  Connie,  "  like  forgiveness  when 
I  was  a  little  girl  and  was  naughty.  I  used  to  feel  just 
like  that 

"  It  is  the  same  kind  of  thing  I  feel,"  I  said — "  as  if 
life  from  the  Spirit  of  God  were  coming  into  my  soul : 
I  think  of  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth. 
Wind  and  spiiit  are  the  same  word  in  the  Greek ;  and 


AN     IMPORTANT    LETTER.  II7 

the  Latin  word  spirit  comes  even  nearer  to  what  we  are 
saying,  for  it  is  the  wind  as  breathed.  And  now,  Connie, 
I  will  tell  you — and  you  will  see  how  I  am  growing  able 
to  talk  to  you  like  quite  an  old  friend — what  put  me  in 
such  a  delight  with  Mr  Shepherd's  letter,  and  so  exposed 
me  to  be  teased  by  mamma  and  you.  As  I  read  it,  there 
rose  up  before  me  a  vision  of  one  sight  of  the  sea  which 

I  had  when  I  was  a  young  man,  long  before  I  saw  yout 
mamma.  I  had  gone  out  for  a  walk  along  s^ome  high 
downs.  But  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  had  been  working 
rather  hard  at  Cambridge,  and  the  life  seemed  to  be  all 
gone  out  of  me.  Though  my  holidays  had  come,  they  did 
not  feel  quite  like  holidays — not  as  holidays  used  to  feel 
when  I  v/as  a  boy.  Even  when  walking  alone'  those 
downs,  with  the  scents  of  sixteen  grasses  or  so  \i\  my  brain, 
like  a  melody  with  the  odour  of  the  earth  for  the  accom  • 
paniment  upon  which  it  floated,  and  with  just  enough  of 
wind  to  stir  them  up  and  set  them  in  motion,  I  could 
not  feel  at  all.  I  remembered  something  of  what  I 
had  used  to  feel  in  such  places,  but  instead  of  believing 
in  that,  I  doubted  now  whether  it  had  not  been  all  a  trick 
that  I  played  myself — a  fancied  pleasure  only.  I  was 
walking  along,  then,  with  the  sea  behind  me.  It  was  a 
warm,  cloudy  day — I  had  had  no  sunshine  since  I  came 
out.  All  at  once  I  turned — I  don't  know  why.  There 
lay  the  gray  sea,  but  not  as  I  had  seen  it  last,  not  all  gray. 

II  was  dotted,  spotted,  and  splashed  all  over  with  drops, 
pools,  and  lakes  of  light,  of  all  shades  of  depth,  from  a 
light  shimmer  of  tremulous  gray,  througli  a  half-light  that 
turned  the  prevailing  lead  colour  into  translucent  green 


Il8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

■  ■      ■ 

that  seemed  to  grow  out  of  its  depths — through  this,  1 
say,  to  brilliant  light,  deepening  and  deepening  till  my 
very  soul  was  stung  by  the  triumph  of  the  intensity  of  its 
molten  silver.  There  was  no  sun  upon  me.  But  there 
were  breaks  in  the  clouds  over  the  sea,  through  which, 
the  air  being  filled  with  vapour,  I  could  see  the  long  lines 
of  the  sun-rays  descending  on  the  waters  like  rain—  so 
like  a  rain  of  light  that  the  water  seemed  to  plash  up  in 
light  under  their  fall.  I  questioned  the  past  no  more  j 
the  present  seized  upon  me,  and  I  knew  that  the  past 
was  true,  and  that  nature  was  more  lovely,  more  awful  in 
her  loveliness  than  I  could  grasp.  It  was  a  lonely  place  1 
I  fell  on  my  knees,  and  worshipped  the  God  that  made 
the  gl^ry  and  my  soul." 

While  1  spoke  Connie's  tears  had  been  flowing 
quietly. 

"  And  mamma  and  I  were  making  fun  while  you  were 
seeing  such  things  as  those  !  '*  she  said,  pitifully. 

"  You  didn't  hurt  them  one  bit,  my  darling — neither 
mamma  nor  you.  If  I  had  been  the  least  cross  about  it, 
as  I  should  have  been  when  I  was  as  young  as  at  the 
time  of  which  I  was  thinking,  that  would  have  ruined  the 
vision  entirely.  But  your  merriment  only  made  me  enjoy 
it  more.  And,  my  Connie,  I  hope  you  will  see  the 
Atlantic  before  long ;  and  if  one  vision  should  come  as 
briUiant  as  that,  we  shall  be  fortunate  indeed — if  we  went 
all  the  way  to  the  west  to  see  that  only.** 

"  O  papa  I  I  dare  hardly  think  of  it — ^it  is  too 
delightful.     But  do  you  think  we  shall  really  go  ?  '* 

•*  I  da     Here  comes  your  mamma. — I  am  going  to 


AS     IMPORTANT    LETTER.  H9 

say  to  Sheph-erd,  my  dear,  that  I  will  take  his  parish  in 
hand,  and  if  I  cannot,  after  all,  go  myself,  will  find  some 
one,  so  that  he  need  be  in  no  anxiety  from  the  uncer- 
tainty which  must  hang  over  our  movements  even  till  the 
experiment  itself  is  made." 

**  Very  well,  husband.     I  am  quite  satisfied." 
And  as  I  watched  Connie,  I  saw  that  hope  and  e* 
pectation  did  much  to  piepare  her. 


CHAPTER   Xr. 
Connie's  dream. 

|R  TURNER,  being  a  good  mechanic  as  well 
as  surgeon,  proceeded  to  invent,  and  with 
|.  his  own  hands  in  a  great  measure  construct, 
a  kind  of  Htter,  which,  with  a  water-bed  laid 
upon  it,  could  be  placed  in  our  own  carriage  for  Connie 
to  lie  upon,  and  from  that  lifted,  without  disturbing  her, 
and  placed  in  a  similar  manner  in  the  railway  carriage. 
He  had  laid  Connie  repeatedly  upon  it  before  he  was 
satisfied  that  the  arrangement  of  the  springs,  &c.,  was 
successful.  But  at  length  she  declared  that  it  was 
perfect,  and  that  she  would  not  mind  being  carried 
across  the  Arabian  desert  on  a  camel's  back  with  that 
under  her. 

As  the  season  advanced  she  continued  to  improve, 
I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  she  was  carried  out 
upon  the  lawn.  If  you  can  imagine  an  infant  coming 
into  the  world  capable  of  the  observation  and  delight 


CONNIE   S    DREAM.  121 

of  a  child  of  eight  or  ten,  you  will  have  some  idea  ol 
how  Connie  received  the  new  impressions  of  everything 
around  her.  They  were  almost  too  much  for  her  at 
first,  however.  She  who  had  been  used  to  scamper 
about  like  a  wild  thing  on  her  pony,  found  the  delight 
of  a  breath  of  wind  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 
After  she  was  laid  down  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  the 
sraile  that  flickered  about  her  mouth  was  of  a  sort  that 
harmonized  entirely  with  the  two  great  tears  that  crept 
softly  out  from  under  her  eyelids,  and  sank,  rather  than 
ran,  down  her  cheeks.  She  lay  so  that  she  faced  a  rich 
tract  of  gently-receding  upland,  plentifully  wooded  to 
the  horizon's  edge,  and  through  the  wood  peeped  the 
white  and  red  houses  of  a  little  hamlet,  with  the  square 
tower  of  its  church  just  rising  above  the  trees.  A  kind 
of  frame  was  made  to  the  whole  picture  by  the  nearer 
trees  of  our  own  woods,  through  an  opening  in  which, 
evidently  made  or  left  for  its  sake,  the  distant  prospect 
was  visible.  It  was  a  morning  in  early  summer,  when 
the  leaves  were  not  quite  full  grown,  but  almost,  and 
their  green  was  shining  and  pure  as  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
when  the  air  had  no  touch  of  bitterness  or  of  lassitude, 
but  was  thoroughly  warm,  and  yet  filled  the  lungs  with 
the  reviving  as  of  a  draught  of  cold  water.  We  had 
fastened  the  carriage  umbrella  to  the  sofa,  so  that  it 
should  shad 2  her  perfectly  without  obscuring  her  Dro- 
si>ect ;  and  behind  this  we  all  crept,  leaving  her  to  cona* 
to  herself  without  being  looked  at,  for  emotion  is  a  sny 
and  sacred  thing,  and  should  be  tenderly  hidden  by  those 
who  are  near.     The  bees  k  ept  very  beesy  all  about  uib 


122  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

To  see  one  huge  fellow,  as  big  as  three  ordinary  ones, 
with  pieces  of  red  and  yellow  about  him,  as  if  he  were 
the  beadle  of  all  bee-dom,  and  overgrown  in  consequence 
— to  see  him,  I  say,  down  in  a  little  tuft  of  white  clover, 
rolling  about  in  it,  hardly  able  to  move  for  fatness,  yet 
bumming  away  as  if  his  business  was  to  express  the 
delight  of  the  whole  creation — was  a  sight !  Then  there 
were  the  butterflies,  so  light  that  they  seemed  to  tumble 
up  into  the  air,  and  get  down  again  with  difficulty)  They 
bewildered  me  with  their  inscrutable  variations  of  pur- 
pose. "  If  I  could  but  see  once,  for  an  hour,  into  the 
mind  of  a  butterfly,"  I  thought,  "it  would  be  to  me  worth 
all  the  natural  history  I  ever  read.  If  I  could  but  see 
why  he  changes  his  mind  so  often  and  so  suddenly — what 
he  saw  about  that  flower  to  make  him  seek  it — then  why, 
on  a  nearer  approach,  he  should  decline  further  acquaint- 
ance with  it,  and  go  rocking  away  through  the  air,  to  do 
the  same  fifty  times  over  again — it  would  give  me  an  in. 
sight  into  all  animal  and  vegetable  life  that  ages  of  study 
could  not  bring  me  up  to."  I  was  thinking  all  this 
behind  my  daughter's  umbrella,  while  a  lark,  whose  body 
had  melted  quite  away  in  the  heavenly  spaces,  was  scat* 
tering  bright  beads  of  ringing  melody  straight  down  upon 
our  heads ;  while  a  cock  was  crowing  like  a  clarion  from 
the  home-farm,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  golden  glitter  of 
his  silent  brother  on  the  roof  of  the  stable ,  while  a  little 
stream  that  scampered  down  the  same  slope  as  the  lawn 
lay  upon,  from  a  well  in  the  stable-yard,  mingled  its  sweet 
undertone  of  contentment  with  the  jubilation  of  the  lark 
and  the  business-like  hum  of  the  bees;  and  while  white 


CONNIE  S    DREAM.  123 


clouds  floated  in  the  majesty  of  silence  across  the  bhie 
deeps  of  the  heavens.  The  air  was  so  full  of  life  and 
reviving,  that  it  seemed  hke  the  crude  substance  that 
God  might  take  to  make  babies'  souls  of — only  the  very 
simile  smells  of  materialism,  and  therefore  I  do  not  like  it, 

"  Papa,"  said  Connie  at  length,  and  I  was  beside  he? 
in  a  moment  Her  face  looked  almost  glorified  with 
delight :  there  was  a  hush  of  that  awe  upon  it  which 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  deepest  kinds  of  delight.  She 
put  out  her  thin  white  hand,  took  hold  of  a  button 
of  my  coat,  drew  me  down  towards  her,  and  said  in  a 
A'hisper : 

"Don't  you  think  God  is  here,  papa?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  my  darling,"  I  answered. 

"  Doesn't  he  enjoy  this  ^ " 

"Yes,  my  dear.     He  wouldn't  make  us  enjoy  it  if  ht 
did  not  enjoy  it.     It  would  be  to  deceive  us  to  make  us 
glad  and  blessed,  while  our  Father  did  not  care  about  it, 
or  how  it  came  to  us.     At  least  it  would  amount  to  maV 
ing  us  no  longer  his  children." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  so.  I  do.  And  I  shah 
enjoy  it  so  much  more  now." 

She  could  hardly  finish  her  sentence,  but  burst  out 
sobbing  so  that  I  was  afraid  she  would  hurt  herself.  I 
saw.  however,  that  it  was  best  to  leave  her  to  quiet  her- 
self, and  motioned  to  the  rest  to  keep  back  and  let  her 
recover  as  she  could.  The  emotion  passed  off  in  a 
summer  shower,  and  when  I  went  round  once  more,  her 
face  was  shining  just  like  a  wet  landscape  after  the  sun 
has  come  out  and  Nature  has  begun   to  make  gentle 


124  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

game  of  her  own  past  sorrows.  In  a  little  while,  she 
vas  merry — merrier,  notwithstanding  her  weakness,  than 
I  think  I  had  evei  seen  her  before. 

"  Look  at  that  comical  sparrow,"  she  said.  "  Look 
how  he  cocks  his  head  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other.  Does  he  want  us  to  see  him  ?  Is  he  bumptious, 
or  what?" 

"  I  hardly  know,  my  dear.  I  think  sparrows  are  very 
like  schoolboys;  and  I  suspect  that  if  we  understood 
the  one  class  thoroughly,  we  should  understand  the 
other.     But  I  confess  I  do  not  yet  understand  either." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  when  Charlie  and  Harry  are  old 
enough  to  go  to  school,"  said  Connie. 

"  It  is  my  only  chance  of  making  any  true  acquaint- 
ance with  the  sparrows,"  I  answered.  "  Look  at  them 
now,"  I  exclaimed,  as  a  little  crowd  of  them  suddenly 
appeared  where  only  one  had  stood  a  moment  before, 
and  exploded  in  objurgation  and  general  unintelligible 
excitement.  After  some  obscure  fluttering  of  wings  and 
pecking,  they  all  vanished  except  two,  which  walked 
about  in  a  dignified  manner,  trying  apparently  to  seem 
quite  unconscious  each  of  the  other's  presence. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  political  meeting  of  some  sort," 
said  Connie,  laughing  merrily. 

"  Well,  they  have  this  advantage  over  us,"  I  answered, 
"  that  they  get  through  their  business,  whatever  it  may 
be,  with  considerably  greater  expedition  than  we  get 
through  ours." 

A  short  silence  followed,  during  which  Connie  lay 
coniempiating  everything. 


CONNIE'S    DREAM.  I2J 


"AVhat  do  you  think  we  girls  are  like,  then,  papal" 
she  asked  at  length.     "  Don't  say  you  don't  know,  now." 

"  I  ought  to  know  something  more  about  you  than 
I  do  about  schoolboys.  And  I  think  I  do  know  a  little 
about  girls — not  much,  though.  They  puzzle  me  a  good 
deal  sometimes.  I  know  what  a  great-hearted  woman 
is,  Connie." 

"  You  can't  help  doing  that,  papa,"  interrupted  Connie, 
adding  with  her  old  roguishness,  "You  must'nt  pass 
yourself  off  for  very  knowing  for  that.  By  the  time 
Wynnie  is  quite  grown  up,  your  skill  will  be  tried.'* 

"  I  hope  I  shall  understand  her  then,  and  you  too, 
Connie." 

A  shadow,  just  like  the  shadow  of  one  of  those  white 
clouds  above  us,  passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said, 
trying  to  smile : 

"  I  shall  never  grow  up,  papa.  If  I  live,  I  shall  only 
be  a  girl  at  best — a  creature  you  can't  understand." 

**  On  the  contrary,  Connie,  I  think  I  understand  you 
almost  as  well  as  mamma.  But  there  isn't  so  much  to 
understand  yet,  you  know,  as  there  will  be." 

Her  merriment  returned. 

*'  Tell  me  what  girls  are  like,  then,  or  I  shall  sulk  all 
day  because  you  say  there  isn't  so  much  in  me  as  in 
mamma." 

"  Well,  I  think,  if  the  boys  are  like  sparrows,  the  girls 
are  like  swallows.  Did  you  ever  watcii  them  before 
rain,  Connie,  skimming  about  over  the  lawn  as  if  it 
were  water,  low  towards  its  surface,  but  never  alighting? 
Vou  never  see    thein  grubbing;  after  worms.     Nothing 


126  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

less  than  things  with  wings  like  themselves  will  satisfy 
them.  They  will  be  obliged  to  the  earth  only  for  a 
little  mud  to  build  themselves  nests  with.  For  the  rest, 
they  live  in  the  air,  and  on  the  creatures  of  the  air. 
And  then,  when  they  fancy  the  air  begins  to  be  uncivil, 
sending  little  shoots  of  cold  through  their  warm  feathers, 
they  vanish.  They  won't  stand  it  They're  off  to  a 
warmer  climate,  and  you  never  know  till  you  find 
they  're  not  there  any  more.     There,  Connie  !" 

"  I  don't  know,  papa,  whether  you  are  making  game  of 
lis  or  not  If  you  are  not,  then  I  wish  all  you  say  were 
quite  true  of  us.  If  you  are,  then  I  think  it  is  not  quite 
like  you  to  be  satirical.** 

"  I  am  no  believer  in  satire,  Connie,  And  1  didn't 
mean  any.  The  swallows  are  lovely  creatures,  and 
there  would  be  no  harm  if  the  girls  were  a  little  steadier 
than  the  swallows.  Further  satire  than  that  I  am  inno- 
cent of." 

"I  don*t  mind  that  much,  papa.  Only  /*m  steady 
enough — and  no  thanks  to  me  for  it,"  she  added  with  a 
sigh. 

"  Connie,'*  I  said,  "  it 's  all  for  the  sake  of  your  wings 
tliat  you  're  kept  in  your  nest" 

She  did  not  stay  out  long  this  first  day,  for  the  liff  the 
air  gave  her  soon  tired  her  weak  body.  But  the  next 
morning  she  was  brighter  and  better,  and  longing  to  get 
up  and  go  out  again.  When  she  was  once  n  ore  laid  on 
her  couch  on  the  lawn,  in  the  midst  of  the  world  of  light 
and  busy-ness.  in  which  the  light  was  the  busiest  of  al^ 
■he  said  to  me  : 


CONNIE'S    DREAM.  127 


"  Papa,  I  had  such  a  strange  dream  last  night :  shall  1 
tell  it  you  ? " 

"  If  you  please,  my  dear.  I  am  very  fond  of  dreams  that 
have  any  sense  in  them — or  even  of  any  that  have  good 
nonsense  in  them.  I  woke  this  morning,  saying  to  my- 
self, *  Dante,  the  poet,  must  have  been  a  respectable  man, 
for  he  was  permitted  by  the  council  of  Florence  to  carry 
the  Nicene  Creed  and  the  Multiplication  Table  in  his  coat 
of  arms.'     Now  tell  me  your  dream." 

Connie  laughed.  All  the  household  tried  to  make 
Connie  laugh,  and  generally  succeeded.  It  was  quite  a 
triumph  to  Charley  or  Harry,  and  was  sure  to  be  recounted 
with  glee  at  the  next  meal,  when  he  succeeded  in  making 
Connie  laugh. 

"  Mine  wasn't  a  dream  to  make  me  laugh.  It  was  too 
dreadful  at  first,  and  too  delightful  afterwards.  I  suppose 
It  was  getting  out  for  the  first  time  yesterday  that  made 
me  dream  it  I  thought  I  was  lying  quite  still,  without 
breathing  even,  with  my  hands  straight  down  by  my  sides 
and  my  eyes  closed.  I  did  not  choose  to  open  them,  for 
I  knew  that  if  I  did  I  should  see  nothing  but  the  inside 
of  the  lid  of  my  coffin.  I  did  not  mind  it  much  at  first, 
for  I  was  very  quiet,  and  not  uncomfortable.  Every- 
thing was  as  silent  as  it  should  be,  for  I  was  ten  feet  and 
a  half  under  the  surface  of  the  earth  in  the  churchyard. 
Old  Rogers  was  not  far  from  me  on  one  side,  and  that 
was  a  comfort ;  only  there  was  a  thick  wall  of  earth  be- 
tween. But  as  the  time  went  on,  I  began  to  get  uncom- 
fortable. I  could  not  help  thinking  how  long  I  should 
have  to  wait  for  the  resurrection.     Somehow  I  had  foi« 


128  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

gotten  all  that  you  teach  us  about  that.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
punishm  .^nt — the  dream — for  forgetting  it.'* 

"  Silly  child  I  Your  dream  is  far  better  than  your  re- 
flections,* 

"  Well,  I'll  go  on  with  my  dream.  I  lay  a  long  time 
till  I  got  very  tired,  and  wanted  to  get  up,  oh,  so  much  I 
But  still  I  lay,  and  although  I  tried,  I  could  not  move 
hand  or  foot.  At  last  I  burst  out  crying.  I  was  ashamed 
of  crying  in  my  coffin,  but  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer. 
I  thought  I  was  quite  disgraced,  for  everybody  was  ex- 
pected to  be  perfectly  quiet  and  patient  down  there. 
But  the  moment  I  began  to  cry,  I  heard  a  sound.  And 
when  I  listened  it  was  the  sound  of  spades  and  pickaxes. 
It  went  on  and  on,  and  came  nearer  and  nearer.  And 
then — it  was  so  strange — I  was  dreadfully  frightened  at 
the  idea  of  the  light  and  the  wind,  and  of  the  people 
seemg  me  in  my  coffin  and  my  night-dress,  and  tried  to 
persuade  myself  that  it  was  somebody  else  they  were 
digging  for,  or  that  they  were  only  going  to  lay  another 
coffin  over  mine.  And  I  thought  that  if  it  was  you, 
papa,  I  shouldn't  mind  how  long  I  lay  there,  for  I 
shouldn't  feel  a  bit  lonely,  even  though  we  could  not 
speak  a  word  to  each  other  all  the  time.  But  the  sounds 
came  on,  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at  last  a  pickaxe  struck, 
with  a  blow  that  jarred  me  all  through,  upon  the  Ud  of 
the  coffin,  right  over  my  head. 

***  Here  she  is,  poor  thing !'  I  heard  a  sweet  voice  say, 

•*  *  I  'ra  so  glad  we  've  found  her,'  said  another  voice. 

**  *  She  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer,'  said  a  third  more 
pitiful  voice  than  either  of  the  others.    'I  heard  hei 


Connie's  dream.  129 

first,'  it  went  on.  *I  was  away  up  in  Orion,  when  I 
thought  I  heard  a  woman  crying  that  oughtn't  to  be 
crying.  And  I  stopped  and  listened.  And  I  heard  her 
again.  Then  I  knew  that  it  was  one  of  the  buried  ones, 
and  that  she  had  been  buried  long  enough,  and  was 
ready  for  the  resurrection.  So  as  any  business  can  wail 
except  that,  I  flew  here  and  there  till  I  fell  in  with  tht 
rest  of  you.' 

"  I  think,  papa,  that  this  must  have  been  because  oi 
what  you  were  saying  the  other  evening  about  the  mys- 
ticism of  St  Paul ;  that  while  he  defended  with  all  his 
might  the  actual  resurrection  of  Christ  and  the  resurrec- 
tion of  those  he  came  to  save,  he  used  it  as  meaning 
something  more  yet,  as  a  symbol  for  our  coming  out  of 
the  death  of  sin  into  the  life  of  truth.  Isn't  that  right, 
papa?" 

"Yes,  my  dear;  I  believe  so.  But  I  want  to  hear 
your  dream  flfst,  and  then  your  way  of  accounting  fof 
it" 

**  There  ijn't  much  more  of  it  now.* 

**  There  must  be  the  best  of  it." 

"Yes.  I  allow  that.  Well,  while  they  spoke — it 
was  a  wonderfully  clear  and  connected  dream  :  I  never 
had  one  hke  it  for  that,  or  for  anything  else — they  were 
clearing  away  the  earth  and  stones  from  the  top  of  my 
coffin.  And  I  lay  trembling  and  expecting  to  be  looked 
at,  like  a  thing  in  a  box  as  I  was,  every  moment  But 
they  Hfted  me,  coffin  and  all,  out  of  the  grave,  for  I  felt 
Ihe  motion  of  it  up.  Then  they  set  it  down,  and  I  heard 
them  taking  the  I'd  off.     But  after  the  lid  was  off,  it  did 


130  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

not  seem  to  make  much  difference  to  me.  I  could  not 
open  my  eyes.  I  saw  no  light,  and  felt  no  wind  blow- 
ing upon  me.  But  I  heard  whispering  about  me.  Then 
I  felt  warm,  soft  hands  washing  my  face,  and  then  I  felt 
wafts  of  wind  coming  on  my  face,  and  thought  th^^v 
came  from  the  waving  of  wings.  And  when  they  had 
washed  my  eyes,  the  air  came  upon  them,  so  sweet  and 
cool !  and  I  opened  them,  I  thought,  and  here  I  was 
lying  on  this  couch,  with  butterflies  and  bees  flitting 
and  buzzing  about  me,  the  brook  singing  somewhere 
near  me.  and  a  lark  up  in  the  sky.  But  there  were  no 
angels — only  plenty  of  light  and  wind  and  living  crea- 
tures. And  I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  before  what 
happiness  meant.  Wasn't  it  a  resurrection,  papa,  to 
come  out  of  the  grave  into  such  a  world  as  thisT' 

"  Indeed  it  was,  my  darling — and  a  very  beautiful 
and  true  dream.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  moralize 
it  to  you,  for  you  have  done  so  for  yourself  already.  But 
not  only  do  I  think  that  the  coming  out  of  sin  into  good- 
ness, out  of  unbelief  into  faith  in  God,  is  like  your  dream; 
but  I  do  expect  that  no  dream  of  such  delight  can  come 
up  to  the  sense  of  fresh  life  and  being  that  we  shall  have, 
when  we  get  on  the  higher  body  after  this  one  won't  serve 
our  purpose  any  longer,  and  is  worn  out  and  cast  aside. 
The  very  ability  of  the  mind,  whether  of  itself  or  by 
some  inspiration  of  the  Almighty,  to  dream  such  things, 
Is  a  proof  of  our  capacity  for  such  things,  a  proof,  I  think* 
that  for  such,  things  we  were  made.  Here  comes  in  the 
chance  for  faith  in  God — the  confidence  in  his  being 
and  perfection,  that  he  would  not  have  made  us  capable 


CONNIE'S    DREAM.  I3I 

without  meaning  to  fill  that  capacity.  If  he  is  able  to 
make  us  capable,  that  is  the  harder  half  done  already 
The  otlier  he  can  easily  do.  And  if  he  is  love  he  will 
do  it.     You  should  thank  God  for  that  dream,  Connie.** 

**  I  was  afraid  to  do  that,  papa." 

**  That  is  as  much  as  to  fear  that  there  is  one  place  to 
which  David  might  have  fled,  where  God  would  not  find 
him — the  most  terrible  of  all  thoughts."  " 

"  Where  do  you  mean,  papa i " 

"  Dreamland,  my  dear.  If  it  is  right  to  thank  God 
for  a  beautiful  thought — I  mean  a  thought  of  strength 
and  grace  giving  you  fresh  life  and  hope — why  should 
you  be  less  bold  to  thank  him  when  such  thoughts  arise 
in  plainer  shape — take  such  vivid  forms  to  your  mind 
that  they  seem  to  come  through  the  doors  of  the  eyei 
into  the  vestibule  of  the  brain,  and  thence  into  the  itnei 
chambers  of  the  souit" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   JOURNEY. 

OR  more  than  two  months  Charlie  am!  Han^ 
had  been  preparing  for  the  journey.  Tlie 
moment  they  heard  of  the  prospect  of  it, 
they  began  to  prepare,  accumulate,  and  pack 
stores  both  for  the  transit  and  the  sojourn.  First  of  all 
there  was  an  extensive  preparation  of  ginger-beer,  con- 
sisting, as  I  was  informed  in  confidence,  of  brown  sugar, 
ground  ginger,  and  cold  water.  This  store  was  how- 
ever, as  near  as  I  can  judge,  exhausted  and  renewed 
about  twelve  times  before  the  day  of  departure  arrived, 
and  when  at  last  the  auspicious  morning  dawned,  they 
remembered  with  dismay  that  they  had  drunk  the  last 
drop  two  days  before,  and  there  was  none  in  stock. 
Then  there  was  a  wonderful  and  more  successful  hoard- 
ing of  marbles,  of  a  variety  so  great  that  my  memory  re- 
fuses to  bear  the  names  of  the  different  kinds,  which,  J 


THE    JOURNEY.  I33 


think,  must  have  greatly  increased  since  the  time  whex) 
I  too  was  a  boy,  when  some  marbles — one  of  real  white 
marble  with  red  veins  especially — produced  in  my  mind 
something  of  the  delight  that  a  work  of  art  produces 
now.  These  were  carefully  deposited  in  one  of  the 
many  divisions  of  a  huge  old  hair-trunk,  which  they  had 
got  their  uncle  Weir,  who  could  use  his  father's  tools  with 
pleasure  if  not  to  profit,  to  fit  up  for  them  with  a  multi- 
plicity of  boxes,  and  cupboards,  and  drawers,  and  trays, 
and  slides,  that  was  quite  bewildering.  In  this  same 
box  was  stowed  also  a  quantity  of  hair,  the  gleanings  of 
all  the  horse-tails  upon  the  premises.  This  was  for 
making  fishing-tackle,  with  a  vague  notion  on  the  part  of 
Harry  that  it  was  to  be  employed  m  catching  whales  and 
crocodiles.  Then  all  their  favourite  books  were  stowed 
away  in  the  same  chest ;  in  especial  a  packet  of  a  dozen 
penny  books,  of  which  I  think  I  could  give  a  complete 
list  now.  For,  one  afternoon  as  I  searched  about  in  the 
lumber-room  after  a  set  of  old  library  steps,  which  I 
wanted  to  get  repaired,  I  came  upon  the  chest,  and  open- 
ing it,  discovered  my  boys*  hoard,  and  in  it  this  packet  of 
books :  I  sat  down  on  the  top  of  the  chest  and  read 
them  all  through,  from  Jack  the  Qiant-killer  down  tc 
Hop  o'  my  Thumb,  without  rising,  and  this  in  the  broad 
daylight,  with  the  yellow  sunshine  nestling  beside  me  on 
the  rose-coloured  silken  seat,  richly  worked,  of  a  large 
stately-looking  chair  with  three  golden  legs.  Yes  I  could 
tell  you  all  those  stories,  not  to  say  the  names  of  them, 
over  yet  Only  I  knew  every  one  of  them  before ;  finding 
now  that  they  had  fared  like  good  vintages,  for  if  they  had 


134  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

lost  something  in  potency,  they  had  gained  much  in  flavour. 
Harry  could  not  read  these,  and  Charlie  not  very  well, 
but  they  put  confidence  in  them  notwithstanding,  in 
virtue  of  the  red,  blue,  and  yellow  prints.  Then  there 
was  a  box  of  sawdust,  the  design  of  which  I  have  not 
yet  discovered ;  a  huge  ball  of  string ;  a  rabbit's  skin ; 
a  Noah's  ark ;  an  American  clock,  that  refused  to  go  for 
all  the  variety  of  treatment  they  gave  it ;  a  box  of  lead 
soldiers,  and  twenty  other  things,  amongst  which  was  a 
huge  gilt  ball  having  an  eagle  of  brass  with  outspread 
rt  ings  on  the  top  of  it. 

Great  was  their  consternation  and  dismay  when  they 
found  that  this  magazine  could  not  be  taken  in  the  post- 
chaise  in  which  they  were  to  follow  us  to  the  station.  A 
good  part  of  our  luggage  had  been  sent  on  before  us,  but 
the  boys  had  intended  the  precious  box  to  go  with  them- 
selves. Knowing  well,  however,  how  little  they  would 
miss  it,  and  with  what  shouts  of  south-sea  discovery  they 
would  greet  the  forgotten  treasure  when  they  returned,  \ 
insisted  on  the  lumbering  article  being  left  in  peace.  So 
that,  as  man  goeth  treasureless  to  his  grave,  whatever  he 
may  have  accumulated  before  the  fatal  moment,  they 
had  to  set  off  for  the  far  country  without  chest  or  ginger- 
beer — not  therefore  altogether  so  desolate  and  unpro- 
vided for  as  they  imagined.  The  abandoned  treasure 
was  forgotten  the  moment  the  few  tears  it  had  occasioned 
were  wiped  away. 

It  was  the  loveliest  of  mornings  when  we  started  upon 
our  journey.  The  sun  shone,  the  wind  was  quiet,  and 
everything  was  glad.     The  swallows  were  twittering  from 


THE    JOURNEY.  I35 


the  corbels  they  had  added  to  the  adornment  of  the  deai 
old  house. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  leave  the  swallows  behind,**  said 
Wynnie,  as  she  stepped  into  the  carriage  after  her 
mother.  Connie,  of  course,  was  already  there,  eager 
and  strong-hearted  for  the  journey. 

We  set  off.  Connie  was  in  delight  with  everything, 
especially  with  all  forms  of  animal  life  and  enjoyment 
that  we  saw  on  the  road.  She  seemed  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  cows  feeding  on  the  rich  green  grass  of  the 
meadows,  of  the  donkeys  eating  by  the  roadside,  of  the 
horses  we  met,  bravely  diligent  at  their  day's  work,  as 
they  trudged  along  the  road  with  waggon  or  cart  behind 
them.  I  sat  by  the  coachman,  but  so  that  I  could  see 
her  face  by  the  slightest  turning  of  my  head.  I  knew 
by  its  expression  that  she  gave  a  silent  blessing  to  the 
little  troop  of  a  brown-faced  gipsy  family,  which  came 
out  of  a  dingy  tent  to  look  at  the  passing  carriage. 
A  fleet  of  ducklings  in  a  pool,  paddling  along  under  the 
convoy  of  the  parent  duck,  next  attracted  her. 

"  Look  ;  look.     Isn't  that  delicious?"  she  cried. 

**  I  don't  think  1  should  like  it  though,"  said  Wynnie. 

"What  shouldn't  you  like,  Wynnie?"  asked  hei 
mother. 

"To  be  in  the  water  and  not  feel  it  wet  Those 
feathers ! " 

"  They  feel  it  with  their  legs  and  their  vvebby  toes,' 
said  Connie. 

"  Yes,  that  is  some  consolation,"  answered  Wynnie. 

•■'  And  if  you  were  a  duck,  you  would  feel  the  good  ol 


136  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

your  feathers  in  winter,  when  you  got  into  your  cold 
bath  of  a  morning." 

I  give  all  this  chat  for  the  sake  of  showing  how  Con- 
nie's illness  had  not  in  the  least  withdrawn  her  from 
r.ature  and  her  sympathies — had  rather,  as  it  were,  made 
all  the  fibres  of  her  bemg  more  delicate  and  sympathetic, 
so  that  the  things  around  her  could  enter  her  soul  even 
more  easily  than  before,  and  what  had  seemed  to  shut 
her  out  had  in  reality  brought  her  into  closer  contact 
with  the  movements  of  all  vitality. 

We  had  to  pass  through  the  village  to  reach  the  rail 
way  station.  Everybody  almost  was  out  to  bid  us  good- 
bye. I  did  not  want,  for  Connie's  sake  chiefly,  to  have 
any  scene,  but  recalling  something  I  had  forgotten  to 
say  to  one  of  my  people,  I  stopped  the  carriage  to  speak 
to  him.  The  same  instant  there  was  a  crowd  of  women 
about  us.  But  Connie  was  the  centre  of  all  their  regards. 
They  hardly  looked  at  her  mother  or  sister.  Had  she 
been  a  martyr  who  had  stood  the  test  and  received  her 
aureole,  she  could  hardly  have  been  more  regarded. 
The  common  use  of  the  word  martyr  is  a  curious  in- 
stance of  how  words  get  degraded.  The  sufferings  in- 
volved in  martyrdom,  and  not  the  pure  will  giving  occa- 
sion to  that  suffering,  is  fixed  upon  by  the  common  mind 
as  the  martyrdom.  The  witness-bearing  is  lost  sight  ofj 
except  we  can  suppose  that  "a  martyr  to  the  toothache" 
means  a  witness  of  the  fact  of  the  toothache  and  it8 
tortures.  But  while  martyrdom  really  means  a  bearing 
for  the  sake  of  the  truth,  yet  there  is  a  way  in  which  any 
tufiering,  even  tliat  we   have    bro-ight   upon  ourselvea, 


THE    JOURNEY.  13^ 


may  become  martyrdom.  When  it  is  so  borne  that  the 
sufferer  therein  bears  witness  to  the  presence  and  father- 
hood of  God,  in  quiet  hopeful  submission  to  his  will,  in 
gentle  endurance,  and  that  effort  after  cheerfulness  which 
is  not  seldom  to  be  seen  where  the  effort  is  hardest  to 
make ;  more  than  all,  perhaps,  and  rarest  of  all,  wlien  it 
is  accepted  as  the  just  and  merciful  consequence  o( 
wrong-doing,  and  is  endured  humbly,  and  with  righteous 
«hame,  as  the  cleansing  of  the  Father's  hand,  indicating 
that  repentance  unto  hfe  which  lifts  the  sinner  out  ol 
his  sins,  and  makes  him  such  that  the  holiest  men  of  old 
would  talk  to  him  with  gladness  and  respect,  then  indeed 
it  may  be  called  a  martyrdom.  This  latter  could  not 
be  Connie's  case,  but  the  former  was  hers,  and  so  far 
she  might  be  called  a  martyr,  even  as  the  old  women  of 
the  village  designated  her. 

After  we  had  again  started,  our  ears  were  invaded 
with  shouts  from  the  post-chaise  behind  us,  in  which 
Charlie  and  Harry,  their  grief  at  the  abandoned  chest 
forgotten  as  if  it  had  never  been,  were  yelling  in  the 
exuberance  of  their  gladness.  Dora,  more  staid  as  be- 
came her  years,  was  trying  to  act  the  matron  with  them 
in  vain,  and  old  nursey  had  enough  to  do  with  Miss 
Connie's  baby  to  heed  what  the  young  gentlemen  were 
about  so  long  as  explosions  of  noise  was  all  the  mis- 
chief. Walter,  the  man-servant,  who  had  been  with  us 
ten  years,  and  was  the  main  prop  of  the  establishment, 
looking  after  everything,  and  putting  his  hand  to  every- 
thing, with  an  indefinite  charge  ranging  from  the  nursery 
to  the  wine  cellar,  and   from   the   corn-bin   to  the   pig- 


138  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

trough,  and  who,  as  we  could  not  possibly  get  on  without 
him,  sat  on  the  box  of  the  post-chaise  beside  the  driver 
from  the  Griffin,  rather  connived,  I  fear,  than  otherwise 
at  the  noise  of  the  youngsters. 

**  Good-bye,  Marshmallows,"  they  were  shouting  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  as  if  they  had  just  been  released 
from  a  prison,  where  they  had  spent  a  wretched  child- 
hood ;  and  as  it  could  hardly  oflfend  anybody's  ears  on 
the  open  country  road,  I  allowed  them  to  shout  till  they 
were  tired,  which  condition  fortunately  arrived  before  we 
reacheJ  the  station,  so  that  there  was  no  occasion  for 
me  to  interfere.  I  always  sought  to  give  them  as  much 
liberty  as  could  be  afforded  them. 

At  the  station  we  found  Weir  waiting  to  see  us  off, 
with  my  sister,  now  in  wonderful  health.  Turner  was 
likewise  there,  and  ready  to  accompany  us  a  good 
part  of  the  way.  But  beyond  the  valuable  assistance  he 
lent  us  in  moving  her,  no  occasion  arose  for  the  exercise 
of  his  professional  skill.  She  bore  the  journey  wonder- 
fully, slept  not  unfrequently,  and  only  at  the  end  showed 
herself  at  length  wearied.  We  stopped  three  times  on 
the  way;  first  at  SaUsbury,  where  the  streams  running 
through  the  streets  delighted  her.  There  we  remained 
one  whole  day,  but  sent  the  children  and  servants,  all 
but  my  wife's  maid,  on  before  us,  under  the  charge  of 
Walter.  This  left  us  more  at  our  ease.  At  Exeter,  we 
ttopped  only  the  night,  for  Connie  found  herself  quite 
able  to  go  on  the  next  morning.  Here  Turner  left  us, 
and  we  missed  him  very  much.  Connie  looked  a  little 
out  of  spirits  after  his  departure,  but  soon  recovered  her- 


THE    JOURNEY.  I3f 


self.  The  next  night  we  spent  at  a  small  town  on  the 
borders  of  Devonshire,  which  was  the  limit  of  our  railway  i 
travelling.  Here  we  remained  for  another  whole  day,  for 
the  remnant  of  the  journey  across  part  of  Devonshire  and 
Cornwall  to  the  shore,  must  be  posted,  and  was  a  good 
five  hours*  work.  We  started  about  eleven  o'clock,  full 
of  spirits  at  the  thought  that  we  had  all  but  accomplished 
the  only  part  of  the  undertaking  about  which  we  had  had 
any  uneasiness.  Connie  was  quite  merry.  The  air  was 
thoroughly  warm.  We  had  an  open  carriage  with  a 
hood.  Wynnie  sat  opposite  her  mother,  Dora  and  Eliza 
the  maid  in  the  rumble,  and  I  by  the  coachman.  The 
road  being  very  hilly,  we  had  four  horses;  and  with 
four  horses,  sunshine,  a  gentle  wind,  hope,  and  thankful- 
ness, who  would  not  be  happy  I 

There  is  a  strange  delight  in  motion,  which  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  altogether  understand.  The  hope  of  the  end 
as  bringing  fresh  enjoyment  has  something  to  do  with  it, 
no  doubt ;  the  accompaniments  of  the  motion,  the 
change  of  scene,  the  mystery  that  lies  beyond  the  next 
hill  or  the  next  turn  in  the  road,  the  breath  of  the  summer 
wind,  the  scent  of  the  pine-trees  especially,  and  of  all 
the  earth,  the  tinkling  jangle  of  the  harness  as  you  pass 
the  trees  on  the  roadside,  the  life  of  the  horses,  the  glitter 
and  the  shadow,  the  cottages  and  the  roses  and  the  rosy 
faces,  the  scent  of  burning  wood  or  peat  from  the  chim- 
neys,— these  and  a  thousand  other  things  combine  to 
make  such  a  journey  delightful.  But  I  believe  it  needs 
something  more  than  this — somctning  even  closer  to  the 
human  life — to  account  for  the  pleasure  that  motion  gives 


I40  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

US  I  suspect  it  is  its  living  symbolism ;  the  hidden  re- 
lations which  it  bears  to  the  eternal  soul  in  its  aspirations 
and  longings — ever  following  after,  ever  attaining,  never 
satisfied.  Do  not  misunderstand  me,  my  reader.  A 
man,  you  will  allow,  perhaps,  may  be  content  although 
he  is  not  and  cannot  be  happy :  I  feel  inclined  to  turn 
all  this  the  other  way,  saying  that  a  man  ought  always 
to  be  happy,  never  to  be  content.  You  will  see  T  do 
not  say  contented ;  I  say  content.  Here  comes  in  his 
faith  :  his  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God,  measureless, 
unbounded.  All  things  are  his,  to  become  his  by 
blessed,  lovely  gradations  of  gift,  as  his  being  enlarges 
to  receive  ;  and  if  ever  the  shadow  of  his  own  necessary 
incompleteness  falls  upon  the  man,  he  has  only  to  re- 
member that  in  God's  idea  he  is  complete,  only  his  life 
is  hid  from  himself  with  Christ  in  God  the  Infinite.  If 
any  one  accuses  me  here  of  mysticism,  I  plead  guilty  with 
gladness :  I  only  hope  it  may  be  of  that  true  mysticism 
which,  inasmuch  as  he  makes  constant  use  of  it,  St  Paul 
would  understand  at  once.     I  leave  it,  however. 

I  think  I-  must  have  been  the  very  happiest  of  the 
party  myself.  No  doubt  I  was  younger  much  than  I  am 
now,  but  then  I  was  quite  middle-aged,  with  full  confes- 
sion thereof,  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles.  Why  should 
not  a  man  be  happy  when  he  is  growing  old,  so  long  as 
his  faith  strengthens  the  feeble  knees  which  chiefly  suf- 
fer in  the  process  of  going  down  the  hillt  True,  the 
fever  heat  is  over,  and  the  oil  burns  more  slowly  in  the 
lamp  of  life;  but  if  there  is  less  fervour,  there  is  more 
pervading  warmth ;  if  less  of  fire,  more  of  sunshine ; 


THE    JOURNEY.  I4I 


there  is  less  smoke  and  more  light.  Verily,  youth  is 
good,  but  old  age  is  better — to  the  man  who  forsakes 
not  his  youth  when  his  youth  forsakes  him.  The  sweet 
visitingS'of  nature  do  not  depend  upon  youth  or  romance, 
but  upon  that  quiet  spirit  whose  meekness  inherits  the 
earth.  The  smell  of  that  field  of  beans  gives  me  more 
delight  now  than  ever  it  could  have  given  me  when  I 
was  a  youth.  And  if  I  ask  myself  why,  I  find  it  is  simply 
because  I  have  more  faith  now  than  I  had  then.  It 
came  to  me  then  as  an  accident  of  nature — a  passing 
pleasure  flung  to  me  only  as  the  dogs'  share  of  tlie  crumbs. 
i>Iow,  I  believe  that  God  means  that  odour  of  the  bean- 
field ;  that  when  Jesus  smelled  such  a  scent  about  Jeru- 
salem or  in  Galilee,  he  thought  of  his  Father.  And  if 
God  means  it,  it  is  mine,  even  if  I  should  never  smell  it 
again.  The  music  of  the  spheres  is  mine  if  old  age 
should  make  me  deaf  as  the  adder.  Am  I  mystical 
again,  reader?  Then  I  hope  you  are  too,  or  will  be 
before  you  have  done  with  this  same  beauti-ful  mystical 
life  of  ours.  More  and  more  nature  becomes  to  me  one 
of  God's  books  of  poetry — not  his  grandest — that  is 
history — but  his  loveliest,  perhaps. 

And  ought  I  not  to  have  been  happy  when  all  who 
were  with  me  were  happy?  I  will  not  run  the  risk  of 
wearying  even  my  contemplative  reader  by  describing  to 
him  the  various  reflexes  of  happiness  that  shone  from  the 
countenances  behind  me  in  the  carriage,  but  I  will  try 
to  hit  each  off  in  a  word  or  a  single  simile.  My  Ethel- 
wyn's  face  was  bright  with  the  brightness  of  a  pale  silvery 
moon  that  has  done  \  er  harvest  work,  and,  a  Uttle  wear>. 


142  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

lifts  herself  again  into  the  deeper  heavens  from  stooping 
towards  the  earth.  Wynnie's  face  was  bright  with  the 
brightness  of  the  morning  star,  ever  growing  pale  and 
faint  over  the  amber  ocean  that  brightens  at  the  sun's 
approach ;  for  life  looked  to  Wynnie  severe  in  its  light, 
and  somewhat  sad  because  severe.  Connie's  face  was 
blight  with  the  brightness  of  a  lake  in  the  rosy  evening, 
the  sound  of  the  river  flowing  in  and  the  sound  of  the 
river  flowing  forth  just  audible,  but  itself  still,  and  con- 
tent to  be  still  and  mirror  tlie  sunset.  Dora's  was  bright 
with  the  brightness  of  a  marigoid  that  follows  the  sun 
without  knowing  it ;  and  Eliza's  was  bright  with  the 
brightness  of  a  half-blown  cabbage  rose,  radiating  good- 
humour.  This  last  is  not  a  good  simile,  but  I  cannot 
find  a  better.     I  confess  failure,  and  go  on. 

After  stopping  once  to  bait,  during  which  operation 
Connie  begged  to  be  carried  into  the  parlour  of  the 
little  inn,  that  she  might  see  the  china  figures  that  were 
certain  to  be  on  the  chimney-piece,  as  indeed  they  were, 
where  she  drank  a  whole  tumbler  of  new  milk  before  we 
lifted  her  to  carry  her  back,  we  came  upon  a  wide  high 
moorland  country,  the  roads  through  which  were  lined 
with  gorse  in  full  golden  bloom,  while  patches  of  heather 
all  about  were  showing  their  bells,  though  not  yet  in 
their  autumnal  outburst  of  purple  fire.  Here  I  began 
to  be  reminded  of  Scotland,  in  wliich  I  had  travelled 
a  good  deal  between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  five-and 
twenty.  The  further  I  went  the  stronger  1  felt  the 
resemblance.  The  look  of  the  fields,  the  stone  fences 
that  divided  them,  the  shape  and  colour  and  materials 


THE    JOURNEY.  I43 


of  the  houses,  the  aspect  of  the  people,  the  feeling  of 
the  air,  and  of  the  earth  and  sky  generally,  made  me 
imagine  myself  in  a  milder  and  more  favoured  Scotland. 
The  west  wind  was  fresh,  but  had  none  of  that  sharp 
edge  which  one  can  so  often  detect  in  otherwise  warm 
winds  blowing  under  a  hot  sun.  Though  she  had 
already  travelled  so  many  miles,  Connie  brightened  up 
within  a  few  minutes  after  we  got  on  this  moor;  and 
we  had  not  gone  much  farther  before  a  shout  from  the 
rumble  informed  us  that  keen-eyed  little  Dora  had 
discovered  the  Atlantic  :  a  dip  in  the  high  coast  revealed 
it  blue  and  bright.  We  soon  lost  sight  of  it  again,  but 
in  Connie's  eyes  it  seemed  to  linger  stilL  As  often  as 
I  looked  round,  the  blue  of  them  seemed  the  reflection 
of  the  sea  in  their  little  convex  mirrors.  Ethelwyn's 
eyes,  too,  were  full  of  it,  and  a  flush  on  her  generally 
pale  cheek  showed  that  she  too  expected  the  ocean. 
After  a  few  miles  along  this  breezy  expanse,  we  began 
to  descend  towards  the  sea-level.  Down  the  winding  of 
a  gradual  slope  interrupted  by  steep  descents,  we  ap- 
proached this  new  chapter  in  our  history.  We  came 
again  upon  a  few  trees  here  and  there,  all  with  their 
tops  cut  off  in  a  plane  inclined  upwards  away  from  the 
sea.  For  the  sea-winds,  like  a  sweeping  scythe,  bend 
tlie  trees  all  away  towards  the  land,  and  keep  their  tops 
mown  with  their  sharp  rushing,  keen  with  salt  spray  off 
the  crests  of  the  broken  waves.  Then  we  passed  through 
some  ancient  villages,  with  streets  narrow  and  steep 
and  sharp-angled,  that  needed  careful  driving  and  the 
frequent  pressure  of  the  brake  upon  the  wheel      And 


144  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

now  the  sea  shone  upon  us  with  nearer  greeting,  and 
we  began  to  fancy  we  could  hear  its  talk  with  the  shore. 
At  length  we  descended  a  sharp  hill,  reached  the  last 
level,  drove  over  a  bridge  and  down  the  line  of  the 
stream,  saw  the  land  vanish  in  the  sea — a  wide  bay ; 
then  drove  over  another  wooden  drawbridge,  and  along 
the  side  of  a  canal,  in  which  lay  half-a-dozen  sloops 
and  schooners.  Then  came  a  row  of  pretty  cottages ; 
then  a  gate,  and  an  ascent;  and  ere  we  reached  the 
lectory,  we  were  aware  of  its  proximity  by  loud  shouts, 
and  the  sight  of  Charlie  and  Harry  scampering  along 
the  top  of  a  stone  wall  to  meet  us.  This  made  their 
mother  nervous,  but  she  kept  quiet,  knowing  that  un- 
restrained anxiety  is  always  in  danger  of  bringing  about 
the  evil  it  fears.  A  moment  after,  we  drew  up  at  a 
long  porch,  leading  through  the  segment  of  a  circle  to 
the  door  of  the  house.  The  journey  was  over.  We  got 
down  in  the  little  village  of  Kilkhaven,  in  tb.e  county 
of  CoruwaU. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

WHAT   WE   DID   WHEN    WE   ARRIVED. 

[E  carried  Connie  in  first  of  all,  of  course,  and 
into  the  room  which  nurse  had  fixed  upon 
for  her — the  best  in  the  house,  of  course, 
again.  She  did  seem  tired  now,  and  no 
wonder  She  had  a  cup  of  tea  at  once,  and  in  half-an- 
hour  dinner  was  ready,  of  which  we  were  all  very  glad. 
After  dinner,  I  went  up  to  Connie's  room.  There  I 
found  her  fast  asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  Wynnie  as  fast 
asleep  on  the  floor  beside  her.  The  drive  and  the  sea 
air  had  had  the  same  effect  on  both  of  them.  But 
pleased  as  I  was  to  see  Connie  sleeping  so  sweetly,  I 
was  even  more  pleased  to  see  Wynnie  asleep  on  the 
floor.  What  a  wonderful  satisfaction  it  may  give  to  a 
father  and  mother  to  see  this  or  that  child  asleep  !  It 
is  when  her  kittens  are  asleep  that  the  cat  creeps  away 
to  look  alter  her  own  comforts.     Our  cat  chose  to  havo 


14^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

her  kittens  in  my  study  once,  and  as  I  would  not  have 
her  further  disturbed  than  to  give  them  another  cushion 
to  lie  on  in  place  of  that  which  belonged  to  my  sofa,  I 
had  many  opportunities  of  watching  them  as  I  wrote,  or 
prejiared  my  sermons.  But  I  must  not  talk  about  the 
cat  and  her  kittens  now.  When  parents  see  their 
cliildren  asleep,  especially  if  they  have  been  suffering 
in  any  way,  they  breathe  more  freely;  a  load  is  lifted 
off  their  minds;  their  responsibility  seems  over;  the 
children  have  gone  back  to  their  Father,  and  he  alone 
is  lookmg  after  them  for  a  while.  Now,  I  had  not  been 
comfortable  about  Wynnie  for  some  time,  and  especially 
during  our  journey,  and  still  more  especially  during  the 
last  part  of  our  journey.  There  was  something  amiss 
with  her.  She  seemed  constantly  more  or  less  dejected, 
as  if  she  had  something  to  think  about  that  was  too 
mucn  for  her,  although,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  really  believe 
now  that  she  had  not  quite  enough  to  think  about 
Some  people  can  thrive  tolerably  without  much  thought: 
at  least,  they  both  live  comfortably  without  it,  and  do 
not  seem  to  be  capable  of  effecting  it  if  it  were  required 
of  them ;  while  for  others  a  large  amount  of  mental  and 
spiritual  operation  is  necessary  for  the  health  of  both 
body  and  mind,  and  when  the  matter  or  occasion  for  so 
much  is  not  afforded  them,  the  consequence  is  analogous 
to  what  follows  when  a  healthy  physical  system  is  not 
supplied  with  sufficient  food :  the  oxygen,  the  source  of 
life,  begins  to  consume  the  life  itself;  it  tears  up  the 
timbers  of  the  house  to  burn  against  the  cold.  Or,  to 
use  a  different  simile,  when  the  Moses-rod  of  circuia« 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHKN    WE    ARRIVED.  I47 


Stance  does  not  strike  the  rock  and  make  the  waters 
flow,  such  a  mind — one  that  must  think  to  live — ^will  go 
digging  into  itself,  and  is  in  danger  of  injuring  the  very 
fountain  of  thought,  by  drawing  away  its  living  water 
into  ditches  and  stagnant  pools.  This  was,  I  say,  the 
case  in  part  with  my  Wynnie,  although  I  did  not  under- 
stand it  at  that  moment.  She  did  not  look  quite  happy, 
did  not  always  meet  a  smile  with  a  smile,  looked  almost 
reprovingly  upon  the  frolics  of  the  little  brother-imps, 
and  though  kindness  itself  when  any  real  hurt  or  grief 
befell  them,  had  reverted  to  her  old,  somewhat  dicta- 
torial manner,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  as 
interrupted  by  Connie's  accident.  To  her  mother  and 
me  she  was  service  itself,  only  service  without  the  smile 
which  is  as  the  flame  of  the  sacrifice  and  makes  it  holy. 
So  we  were  both  a  little  uneasy  about  her,  for  we  did 
not  understand  her.  On  the  journey  she  had  seemed 
almost  annoyed  at  Connie's  ecstasies,  and  said  to  Dora 
many  times — "  Do  be  quiet,  Dora;"  although  there  was 
not  a  single  creature  but  ourselves  within  hearing,  and 
poor  Connie  seemed  only  delighted*  with  the  child's 
explosions.  So  I  was — but  although  I  say  so,  I  hardly 
know  why  I  was  pleased  to  see  her  thus,  except  it  was 
from  a  vague  belief  in  the  anodyne  of  slumber.  But 
this  pleasure  did  not  last  long ;  for  as  I  stood  regarding 
my  two  treasures,  even  as  if  my  eyes  had  made  het 
uncomfortable,  she  suddenly  opened  hers,  and  started 
to  her  feet,  with  the  words,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa,* 
looking  almopt  guiltily  round  her,  and  putting  up  her 
hair  buniedly.  as  if  she  had  committed  an  luiproprietj 


•48  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

in  being  caught  untidy.  This  was  fresh  sign  of  a  con- 
dition of  mind  that  was  not  healthy. 

*'  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  what  do  you  beg  my  pardon  for  I 
I  was  so  pleased  to  see  you  asleep !  and  you  look  as  if 
you  thought  I  were  going  to  scold  you." 

**  O  papa,**  she  said,  laying  her  head  on  my  shoulder, 
**  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  very  naughty.  I  so  often  feel 
now  as  if  I  were  doing  something  wrong,  or  rather  as  ii 
you  would  think  I  was  doing  something  wrong.  I  am 
sure  there  must  be  something  wicked  in  me  somewhere, 
though  I  do  not  clearly  know  what  it  is.  When  I  woke 
up  now,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  neglected  something,  and  yon 
had  come  to  find  fault  with  me.  Is  there  anything 
papa  1 " 

"  Nothing  whatever,  my  child.  But  you  cannot  be 
well  when  you  feel  like  that." 

"  I  am  perfectly  well,  so  far  as  I  know.  I  was  so  cross 
to  Dora  to-day  I  Why  shouldn't  I  feel  happy  when 
everybody  else  is?     I  must  be  wicked,  papa." 

Here  Connie  woke  up. 

**  There  now !  I  've  waked  Connie,"  Wynnie  resumed 
**  I  'm  always  doing  something  I  ought  not  to  do.  Please 
go  to  sleep  again,  Connie,  and  take  that  sin  off  my  poor 
conscience." 

"What  nonsense  is  Wynnie  talking  about  being 
nicked  ? "  asked  Connie. 

**  It  isn  't  nonsense,  Connie.     You  know  I  am.** 

**  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  Wynnie.  If  it  were  me 
00  w  .'     And  yet  I  don't  fee/  wicked." 

**  My  dear  children,"  I  said,  "  we  must  all  pray  to  God 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHEN    WE    ARRIVED  I49 

for  his  Spirit,  and  then  we  shall  feel  just  as  we  ought  to 
feel  It  is  not  for  any  one  to  say  to  himself  how  he 
ought  to  feel  at  any  given  moment ;  still  less  for  one  man 
to  say  to  another  how  he  ought  to  feel ;  that  is  in  the 
former  case  to  do  as  St  Paul  says  he  had  learned  to  give 
up  doing — to  judge  our  own  selves,  which  ought  to  be 
left  to  God  ;  in  the  latter  case  it  is  to  do  what  our  Lord 
has  told  us  expressly  we  are  not  to  do — to  judge  other 
people.  You  get  your  bonnet,  Wynnie,  and  come  out 
with  me.  I  am  going  to  explore  a  little  of  this  desert 
island  upon  which  we  have  been  cast  away.  And  you, 
Connie,  just  to  please  Wynnie,  must  try  and  go  to  sleep 
again." 

Wynnie  ran  for  her  bonnet,  a  little  afraid  perhaps  tha^, 
I  was  going  to  talk  seriously  to  her,  but  show'rg  no  re- 
luctance anyhow  to  accompany  me. 

Now  I  wonder  whether  it  will  be  better  to  tell  what 
we  saw,  or  only  what  we  talked  about,  and  give  what  we 
saw  in  the  shape  in  which  we  reported  it  to  Connie,  when 
we  came  back  into  her  room,  bearing,  like  the  spies  who 
went  to  search  the  land,  our  bunch  of  grapes,  that  is,  of 
sweet  news  of  nature,  to  her  who  could  not  go  to  gather 
them  for  herself.  I  think  it  will  be  the  best  plan  to  take 
part  of  both  plans. 

When  we  left  the  door  of  the  house,  we  went  up  the 
few  steps  of  a  stair  leading  on  to  the  downs,  against  and 
amidst,  and  indeed  in,  the  rocks  buttressing  the  sea-edge 
of  which  our  new  abode  was  built  A  life  for  a  big- 
winged  angel  seemed  waiting  us  upon  those  downs. 
The  wind   still  blew  from  the  wei>t,   botli   warm  and 


r50  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Strong — I  mean  strength-giving — and  the  wind  was  the 
first  thing  we  were  aware  of.  The  ground  underfoot 
was  green  and  soft  and  springy,  and  sprinkled  all  ovei 
with  the  bright  flowers,  chiefly  yellow,  that  live  amidst 
the  short  grasses  of  the  downs,  the  shadows  of  whose 
unequal  surface  were  now  beginning  to  be  thrown  east, 
for  the  sun  was  going  seawards.  I  stood  up,  stretched 
out  my  arms,  threw  back  my  shoulders  and  my  head^ 
and  filled  my  chest  with  a  draught  of  the  delicious  wind, 
feeling  thereafter  like  a  giant  refreshed  with  wine.  Wyn- 
nie  stood  apparently  unmoved  amidst  the  life-nectar, 
thoughtful,  and  turning  her  eyes  hither  and  thither. 

**  That  makes  me  feel  young  again,"  I  said. 

"I  wish  it  would  make  me  feel  old  then,"  said 
AVynnie. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  child?" 

"  Because  then  I  should  have  a  chance  of  knowing 
what  it  is  like  to  feel  young,"  she  answered  rather  enig- 
matically. I  did  not  reply.  We  were  walking  up  the 
brow  which  hid  the  sea  from  us.  The  smell  of  the  down- 
turf  was  indescribable  in  its  homely  delicacy ;  and  by  the 
time  we  had  reached  the  top,  almost  every  sense  was 
filled  with  its  own  delight.  The  top  of  the  hill  was  the 
edge  of  the  great  shore-cliff;  and  the  sun  was  hanging  on 
the  face  of  the  mightier  sky-cliff  opposite,  and  the  sea 
stretched  for  visible  miles  and  miles  along  the  shore  on 
either  hand,  its  wide  blue  mantle  fringed  with  lovely 
white  wherever  it  met  the  land,  and  scalloped  into  all 
fantastic  curves,  according  to  the  whim  of  the  nether 
fires  which  had  formed  its  bed;  and  the  rush  of  the 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHEN    WE    ARRIVED.  15I 

waves,  as  they  bore  the  rising  tide  up  on  the  sliore,  was 
the  one  music  fit  for  the  whole.  Ear  and  eye,  touch  and 
Bmell,  were  alike  invaded  with  blessedness.  I  ought  to 
have  kept  this  to  give  my  reatder  in  Connie's  room  ;  but 
he  shall  share  with  her  presently.  The  sense  of  space — 
of  mighty  room  for  life  and  growth  filled  my  soul,  and  I 
thanked  God  in  my  heart  The  wind  seemed  to  beat 
that  growth  into  my  soul,  even  as  the  wind  of  God  first 
breathed  into  man's  nostrils  the  breath  of  life,  and  the 
sun  was  the  pledge  of  the  fulfilment  of  every  aspiration. 
I  turned  and  looked  at  Wynnie.  She  stood  pleased  tut 
listless  amidst  that  which  lifted  me  into  the  heaven  oi 
the  Presence. 

"Don't  you  enjoy  all  this  grandeur,  Wynnie?** 
•*  I  told  you  I  was  very  wicked,  papa." 
**  And  I  told  you  not  to  say  so,  Wynnie." 
**  You  see  I  cannot  enjoy  it,  papa.     I  wonder  why  it 
is." 

"  I  suspect  it  is  because  you  haven't  room,  Wynnie." 
**  I  know  you  mean   something  more  than  I  know, 
papa." 

"I  mean,  my  dear,  that  it  is  not  because  you  are 
wicked,  but  because  you  do  not  know  God  well  enough, 
ar.d  therefore  your  being,  which  can  only  live  in  him,  is 
*  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  bound  in.'  It  is  only  in 
him  that  the  soul  has  room.  In  knowing  him,  is  fife 
and  its  gladness.  The  secret  of  youi  own  heart  you  can 
never  know ;  but  you  can  know  Him  who  knows  its 
secret.  Look  up,  my  darling ;  see  the  heavens  and  the 
earth.     You  do  not  feel  them,  and  I  do  not  call  upon 


152  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

you  to  feel  them.  It  would  be  both  useless  and  absurd 
to  do  so.  But  just  let  them  look  at  you  for  a  moment, 
and  then  tell  me  whether  it  must  not  be  a  blessed  life 
that  creates  such  a  glory  as  this  All." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  looked  up  at  the  sky, 
looked  round  on  the  earth,  looked  far  across  the  sea  to 
the  setting  sun,  and  then  turned  her  eyes  upon  me. 
They  were  filled  with  tears,  but  whether  from  feeling  or 
sorrow  that  she  could  not  feel,  I  would  not  inquire.  I 
made  haste  to  speak  again. 

"  As  this  world  of  delight  surrounds  and  enteis  your 
bodily  frame,  so  does  God  surround  your  soul  and  live 
in  it.  To  be  at  home  with  the  awful  source  of  youi , 
being,  through  the  child-like  faith  which  he  not  only 
permits,  but  requires,  and  is  ever  teaching  you,  or  rather 
seeking  to  rouse  up  in  you,  is  the  only  cure  for  such 
feelings  as  those  that  trouble  you.  Do  not  say  it  is  too 
high  for  you.  God  made  you  in  his  own  image,  there- 
fore capable  of  understanding  him.  For  this  final  end  he 
sent  his  Son,  that  the  Father  might  with  him  come  into 
you,  and  dwell  with  you.  Till  he  does  so,  the  temple 
of  your  soul  is  vacant ;  there  is  no  light  behind  the  veil, 
no  cloudy  pillar  over  it ;  and  the  priests,  your  thoughts, 
feelings,  loves,  and  desires,  moan  and  are  troubled — for 
where  is  the  work  of  the  priest  when  the  god  is  not  there  I 
When  He  comes  to  you,  no  mystery,  no  unknown  feeling 
will  an)  longer  distress  you.  You  will  say,  *  He  knows, 
though  I  do  not.'  And  you  will  be  at  the  secret  of  the 
things  he  has  made.  You  will  feel  what  they  are,  and 
that  which  his  will  created  in  gladness  you  will  receive 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHEN    WE    ARRIVED.  153 

In  joy.  One  glimmer  of  the  present  God  in  this  glory 
would  send  you  home  singing.  But  do  not  think  I  blame 
you,  Wynnie,  for  feeHng  sad.  I  take  it  rather  as  the  sign 
of  a  large  life  in  you,  that  will  not  be  satisfied  with  little 
things.  I  do  not  know  when  or  how  it  may  please  God 
to  give  you  the  quiet  of  mind  that  you  need  ;  but  I  tell 
you  that  I  believe  it  is  to  be  had  ;  and,  in  the  mean- 
time, you  must  go  on  doing  your  work,  trusting  in  God 
even  for  this.  Tell  him  to  look  at  your  sorrow,  ask 
him  to  come  and  set  it  right,  making  the  joy  go  up  in 
your  heart  by  his  presence.  I  do  not  know  when  this 
may  be,  I  say,  but  you  must  have  patience,  and  till  he 
lays  his  hand  on  your  head,  you  must  be  content  to 
wash  his  feet  with  your  tears.  Only  he  will  be  better 
pleased  if  your  faith  keep  you  from  weeping  and  from 
going  about  your  duties  mournful.  Try  to  be  brave  and 
cheerful  for  the  sake  of  Christ,  and  for  the  sake  of  your 
confidence  in  the  beautiful  teaching  of  God,  whose 
course  and  scope  you  cannot  yet  understand.  Trust,  my 
daughter,  and  let  that  give  you  courage  and  strength." 

Now  the  sky  and  the  sea  and  the  earth  must  have 
made  me  able  to  say  these  things  to  her ;  but  I  knew 
that,  whatever  the  immediate  occasion  of  her  sadness, 
such  was  its  only  real  cure.  Other  things  might,  in 
virtue  of  the  will  of  God  that  was  in  them,  give  her  oc- 
cupation and  interest  enough  for  a  time,  but  nothmg 
would  do  finally,  but  God  himself.  Here  I  was  sure  I 
was  safe;  here  1  knew  lay  the  hunger  of  humanity. 
Humanity  may,  like  other  vital  forms,  diseased  systems^ 
ftx  on  this  or  that  as  the  object  not  merely  of  its  desire 


154  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

but  of  its  need  :  it  can  never  be  stilled  by  less  than  the 
bread  of  life — the  very  presence  in  the  innermost  nature 
of  the  Father  and  the  Son. 

We  walked  on  together.  Wynnie  made  me  no  reply, 
but,  weeping  silently,  clung  to  my  arm.  We  walked  a 
long  way  by  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  beheld  the  sun  go 
down,  and  then  turned  and  went  home.  When  we 
reached  the  house,  Wynnie  left  me,  saying  only,  "  Thank 
you,  papa.  I  think  it  is  all  true.  I  will  try  to  be  a 
better  girl." 

I  went  straight  to  Connie's  room :  she  was  lying  as  1 
saw  her  last,  looking  out  of  her  window. 

"Connie,**  I  said,  "Wynnie  and  I  have  had  such  a 
treat — such  a  sunset ! " 

"  I  've  seen  a  little  of  the  light  of  it  on  the  waves  in 
the  bay  there,  but  the  high  ground  kept  me  from  seeing 
the  sunset  itself.     Did  it  set  in  the  sea  1 " 

"  You  do  want  the  General  Gazetteer,  after  all,  Connie. 
Is  that  water  the  Atlantic,  or  is  it  not  ?  And  if  it  be, 
where  on  earth  could  the  sun  set  but  in  it  1  '* 

"  Of  course,  papa.  What  a  goose  I  am  !  But  don't 
make  game  of  m^— please.  I  am  too  deliciously  happy 
to  be  made  game  of  to-night" 

"  I  won't  make  game  of  you,  my  darling.  I  will  tell 
yoii  about  the  sunset — the  colours  of  it,  at  least.  This 
must  be  one  of  the  best  places  ;u  the  whole  world  to  see 
sunsets.*' 

"But  you  have  had  no  tea,  papa.  I  thought  you 
would  come  and  have  your  tea  with  me.  But  you  were 
•O  long  that  mamma  would  not  let  me  wait  any  longer." 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHEN    WE    ARRIVED.  I55 

**  Oh,  never  mind  the  tea,  my  dear.  But  Wynnie  has 
had  none.  You  've  got  a  tea-caddy  of  your  own,  haven't 
your 

"  Yes,  and  a  teapot ;  and  there  's  the  kettle  on  the 
hob — for  I  can't  do  without  a  Httle  fire  in  the  even- 
ings." 

"  Then  I  *11  make  some  tea  for  Wynnie  and  myself,  and 
tell  you  at  the  same  time  about  the  sunset.  I  never  saw 
such  colours.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  was  like  while 
the  sun  was  yet  going  down,  for  the  glory  of  it  has  burned 
the  memory  of  it  out  of  me.  But  after  the  sun  was  down, 
the  sky  remained  thinking  about  him  ;  and  the  thought  of 
the  sky  was  in  delicate  translucent  green  on  the  horizon, 
just  the  colour  of  the  earth  etherealised  and  glorified — a 
broad  band ;  then  came  another  broad  band  of  pale 
rose-colour ;  and  above  that  came  the  sky's  own  eternal 
blue,  pale  likewise,  but  so  sure  and  changeless.  I  never 
saw  the  green  and  the  blue  divided  and  harmonised  by 
the  rose-colour  before.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight  If 
it  is  warm  enough  to-morrow,  we  will  carry  you  out 
on  the  height,  that  you  may  see  what  the  evening  will 
bring." 

"  There  is  one  thing  about  sunsets,"  returned  Connie 
— **  two  things,  that  make  me  rather  sad — about  them- 
selves, not  about  anything  else.  Shall  I  tell  you 
themr* 

"  Do,  my  love.  There  are  few  things  more  precious 
to  learn  than  the  eff*ects  of  Nature  upon  individual  minds. 
And  there  is  not  si  feeling  of  yours,  my  child,  that  is  not 
of  value  to  me." 


flS5  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  You  are  so  kind,  papa !  I  am  so  glad  of  my  accident ! 
I  think  1  should  never  have  known  how  good  you  are 
but  for  that  But  my  thoughts  seem  so  httle  worth  afte* 
you  say  so  much  about  them." 

"  Let  me  be  judge  of  that,  my  dear." 

**  Well,  one  thing  is,  that  we  shall  never,  never,  nevei 
see  the  same  sunset  again.'* 

"  That  is  true.  But  why  should  we  1  God  does  not 
care  to  do  the  same  thing  over  again.  When  it  is  once 
done,  it  is  done,  and  he  goes  on  doing  something  new. 
For,  to  all  eternity,  he  never  will  have  done  showing.him- 
self  by  new,  fresh  things.  It  would  be  a  loss  to  do  the 
same  thing  again." 

**But  that  just  brings  me  to  my  second  trouble.  The 
thing  is  lost.  1  forget  it.  Do  what  I  can,  I  cannot  re- 
member sunsets.  I  try  to  fix  them  fast  in  m.y  memory, 
that  I  may  recall  them  when  I  want  them ;  but  just  as 
they  fade  out  of  the  sky,  all  into  blue  or  gray,  so  they 
fade  out  of  my  mind,  and  leave  it  as  if  they  had  never 
been  there — except  perhaps  two  or  three.  Now,  though 
I  did  not  see  this  one,  yet,  after  you  have  talked  about 
it,  I  shall  never  forget  iC 

"  It  is  not,  and  never  will  be,  as  if  they  had  never  been. 
They  have  their  influence,  and  leave  that  far  deeper  than 
your  memory — in  your  very  being,  Connie,  But  I  have 
more  to  say  about  it,  although  it  is  only  an  idea,  hardly 
an  assurance.  Our  brain  is  necessarily  an  impeifect  in- 
strument. For  its  right  work,  perhaps  it  is  needful  that 
it  should  forget  in  part.  But  there  are  grounds  for 
believing  that  nothing  is  ever  really  forgotten     I  think 


WHAT    WE    DID    WHEN    WE    ARRIVED).  157 

that,  when  we  have  a  higher  existence  than  we  have  now, 
when  we  are  clothed  with  that  spiritual  body  of  which  St 
Paul  speaks,  you  will  be  able  to  recall  any  sunset  you 
have  ever  seen,  with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  the 
degree  of  regard  and  attention  you  gave  it  when  it  was 
present  to  you.  But  here  comes  Wynnie  to  see  how  you 
are.  I  've  been  making  some  tea  for  you,  Wynnie,  my 
love.** 

**  Oh,  thank  you,  papa — I  shall  be  so  glad  of  some 
tea  ! "  said  Wynnie,  the  paleness  of  whose  face  showed 
the  red  rims  of  her  eyes  the  more  plainly.  She  had  had 
what  girls  call  a  good  cry,  and  was  clearly  the  better 
for  it. 

The  same  moment  my  wife  came  in. 

**  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me,  Harry,  to  get  your  tea? " 
she  said. 

"I  did  not  deserve  any,  seeing  I  had  disregarded  proper 
times  and  seasons.     But  I  knew  you  must  be  busy." 

"  I  have  been  superintending  the  arrangement  of  bed- 
rooms, and  the  unpacking,  and  twenty  different  things," 
said  Ethelwyn.  "We  shall  be  so  co  m.'br  table  !  It  is 
Buch  a  curious  house  !     Have  you  had  a  nice  walk  t  ** 

**  Mamma,  I  never  had  such  a  walk  in  my  life," 
returned  Wynnie.  "  You  would  think  the  shore  had  been 
built  for  the  sake  of  tlie  show — just  for  a  platform  to  see 
sunsets  from.  And  the  sea !  Only  the  cliffs  will  be 
rather  dangerous  for  the  children." 

**I  have  just  been  telling  Connie  about  the  sunset 
She  could  see  something  of  the  co  ours  on  the  water,  but 
not  much  more." 


fC8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Oh,  Connie,  it  will  be  so  delightful  to  get  you  out 
here  I  Everything  is  so  big !  There  is  such  room 
everywhere !  But  it  must  be  awfully  windy  in  winter," 
said  Wynnie,  whose  nature  was  always  a  little  prospective, 
if  nor  apprehensive. 

But  I  must  not  keep  my  reader  longer  upon  mer« 
family  chalk 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

MORE   ABOUT   KILKHAVEN. 

|UR  dining-room  was  one  story  betow  the 
level  at  which  we  had  entered  the  parson- 
age ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  the  house  was  built 
into  the  face  of  the  cliflf,  just  where  it  sunk 
nearly  to  the  level  of  the  shores  of  the  bay.  While  at 
dinner,  on  the  evening  of  our  arrival,  I  kept  looking  from 
the  window,  of  course,  and  saw  before  me,  first  a  little 
bit  of  garden,  mostly  in  turf,  then  a  low  stone  wall ; 
beyona,  over  the  top  of  the  wall,  the  blue  water  of  the 
bay;  then  beyond  the  water,  all  alive  with  light  and 
motion,  the  rocks  and  sand-hills  of  the  opposite  side  of 
the  little  bay,  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across.  I  could 
likewise  see  where  the  shore  went  sweeping  out  and 
away  to  the  north,  with  rock  after  rock  standing  far  into 
the  water,  as  if  gazing  over  the  awful  wild,  where  there 
was  nothing  to  break  the  deathly  waste  between  Corn- 
cvall  and  Newfoundland.     But  for  the  moment  I  did  noi 


l6o  THE    SEADQARD    PARISH. 

regard  the  huge  power  lying  outside  so  much  as  the 
merry  blue  bay  between  me  and  those  rocks  and  sand- 
hills. If  I  moved  my  head  a  little  to  the  right,  I  saw, 
over  the  top  of  the  low  wall  already  mentioned,  and 
apparently  quite  close  to  it,  the  slender  yellow  masts  of 
a  schooner,  her  mainsail  hanging  loose  from  the  gaff, 
whose  peak  was  lowered.  We  must,  I  thought,  be  on 
the  very  harbour-quay.  When  I  went  out  for  my  walk 
with  Wynnie,  I  had  turned  from  the  bay,  and  gene  to  the 
brow  of  the  cliffs  overhanging  the  open  sea  on  our  side 
of  it. 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  same  room 
next  morning,  I  stared.  The  blue  had  changed  to 
yellow.  The  life  of  the  water  was  gone.  Nothing  met 
my  eyes  but  a  wide  expanse  of  dead  sand.  You  could 
walk  straight  across  the  bay  to  the  hills  opposite  From 
the  look  of  the  rocks,  from  the  perpendicular  cliffs  on 
the  coast,  I  had  almost,  without  thinking,  concluded 
•that  we  were  on  the  shore  of  a  deep-water  bay.  It  was 
high-water,  or  nearly  so,  then ;  and  now,  when  I  looked 
westward,  it  was  over  a  long  reach  of  sands,  on  the 
far  border  of  which  the  white  fringe  of  the  waves  was 
visible,  as  if  there  was  their  hitherto^  and  further  towards 
us  they  could  not  come.  Beyond  the  fringe  lay  the 
low  hill  of  the  Atlantic.  To  add  to  my  confusion,  when 
I  looked  to  the  right,  that  is,  up  the  bay  towards  the 
land,  there  was  no  schooner  there.  I  went  out  at  the 
window,  which  opened  from  the  room  upon  the  little 
lawn,  to  look,  and  then  saw  in  a  moment  how  it  was. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear,'*  I  said  to  my  wife,  "  w« 


MOKE    ABOUT    KILKHAVEN.  l6l 

are  just  at  the  mouth  of  that  canal  we  saw  as  we  came 
along?  There  are  gates  and  a  lock -just  outside  there. 
The  schooner  that  was  under  this  window  last  night 
must  have  gone  in  with  the  tide.  She  is  lying  in  the 
basin  above  now." 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  Charlie  and  Harry  broke  in  to- 
gether. "  We  saw  it  go  up  this  morning.  We  've  been 
out  ever  so  long.  It  was  so  funny,"  Charlie  went  on^- 
everything  was  funny  with  Charlie — "  to  see  it  rise  up 
like  a  Jack-in-the-box,  and  then  slip  into  the  quiet  water 
through  the  other  gates  ! " 

And  when  I  thought  about  the  waves  tumbling  and 
breaking  away  out  there,  and  the  wide  yellow  sands  be- 
tween, it  was  wonderful — which  was  what  Charlie  meant 
by  funny — to  see  the  little  vessel  lying  so  many  feet 
above  it  all,  in  a  still  plenty  of  repose,  gathering  strength, 
one  might  fancy,  to  rush  out  again,  when  its  time  was 
come,  into  the  turmoil  beyond,  and  dash  its  way  through 
the  breasts  of  the  billows. 

After  breakfast  we  had  prayers,  as  usual,  and  after  a 
visit  to  Connie,  whom  I  found  tired,  but  wonderfully 
well,  I  went  out  for  a  walk,  by  myself,  to  explore  the 
neighbourhood,  find  the  church,  and,  in  a  word,  do 
something  to  shake  myself  into  my  new  garments.  The 
day  was  glorious.  I  wandered  along  a  green  path,  in 
the  opposite  direction  from  our  walk  the  evening  before, 
with  a  fir-wood  on  my  right  hand,  and  a  belt  of  feathery 
tamarisks  on  my  left,  behind  which  lay  gardens  sloping 
steeply  to  a  lower  road,  where  stood  a  few  pretty  cot- 
tages.    Turning  a  corner,  I  came  suddenly  in  sight  of 


l6a  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  church,  on  the  green  down  above  me — a  sheltered 
yet  commanding  situation  ;  for,  while  the  hill  rose  above 
it,  protecting  it  from  the  east,  it  looked  down  the  bay, 
and  the  Atlantic  lay  open  before  it.  All  the  earth  seemed 
to  lie  behind  it,  and  all  its  gaze  to  be  fixed  on  the  symbol 
of  the  infinite.  It  stood  as  the  church  ought  to  stand, 
leading  men  up  the  mount  of  vision,  to  the  verge  of  the 
eternal,  to  send  them  back  with  their  hearts  full  of  the 
strength  that  springs  from  hope,  by  which  alone  the  true 
work  of  the  world  can  be  done.  And  when  I  saw  it,  I 
rejoiced  to  think  that  once  more  I  was  favoured  wit'i  a 
church  that  had  a  history.  Of  course  it  is  a  happy  thmg 
to  see  new  churches  built  wherever  there  is  need  of 
such  ;  but  to  the  full  idea  of  the  building  it  is  necessary 
that  it  should  be  one  in  which  the  hopes  and  fears,  the 
cares  and  consolations,  the  loves  and  desires  of  our  fore- 
fathers should  have  been  roofed  ,  where  the  hearts  of 
those  through  whom  our  country  has  become  that  which 
it  is — from  whom  not  merely  the  life-blood  of  our  bodies, 
but  the  life-blood  of  our  spirits,  has  come  down  to  us, 
whose  existence  and  whose  efi'orts  have  made  it  possible 
for  us  to  be  that  which  we  are — have  before  us  wor- 
shipped that  Spirit  from  whose  fountain  the  whole  tor- 
rent of  being  flows,  who  ever  pours  fresh  streams  into  the 
wearying  waters  of  humanity,  so  ready  to  settle  down 
into  a  stagnant  repose.  Therefore,  I  would  far  rather, 
when  I  may,  worship  in  an  old  church,  whose  very  stones 
are  a  history  of  how  men  strove  to  realize  the  infinite, 
compelling  even  the  powers  of  nature  into  the  task  as  1 
foon  found  on  the  very  dooiway  of  this  chuich,  where 


MORE    APOUT     KILKHAVEN.  l6^ 

the  ripples  of  the  outspread  ocean,  and  grotesque  imagi- 
nations of  the  monsters  of  its  deeps,  fixed,  as  it  might 
seem,  for  ever  in  stone,  gave  a  distorted  reflex,  from  the 
little  mirror  of  the  artist's  mind,  of  that  mighty  water,  so 
awful,  so  significant  to  the  human  eye,  which  yet  lies  in 
the  hollow  of  the  Father's  palm,  like  the  handful  that 
the  weary  traveller  lifts  from  the  brook  by  the  way.  It 
is  in  virtue  of  the  truth  that  went  forth  in  such  and  such 
like  attempts  that  we  are  able  to  hold  our  portion  of 
the  infinite  reality  which  God  only  knows.  They  have 
founded  our  Church  for  us,  and  such  a  church  as  this 
will  stand  for  the  symbol  of  it ;  for  here  we  too  can 
worship  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob — 
the  God  of  Sidney,  of  Hooker,  of  Herbert.  This  church 
of  Kilkhaven,  old  and  worn,  rose  before  me  a  history  in 
stone — so  beaten  and  swept  about  by  the  "  wild  west 
wind," 

"  For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms," 

and  so  streamed  upon,  and  washed,  and  dissolved,  by 
the  waters  lifted  from  the  sea  and  borne  against  it  on 
the  upper  tide  of  the  wind,  that  you  could  almost  fancy 
it  one  of  those  churches  that  have  been  buried  for  ages 
beneath  the  encroaching  waters,  lifted  again,  by  some 
mighty  revulsion  of  nature's  heart,  into  the  air  of  the 
sweet  heavens,  there  to  stand  marked  for  ever  with  the 
tide-fli)ws  of  the  nether  world — scooped,  and  hollowed, 
and  worn  like  aeonian  rocks  that  have  slowly  but  for 
ever  responded  to  the  swirl  and  eddy  of  the  wearing 
waters,     ^o,  from  the  most  troublous  of  times  will  tho 


104  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Church  of  our  land  arise,  in  virtue  of  what  truth  she 
holds,  and  in  spite,  if  she  rises  at  all,  of  the  worldliness 
of  those  who,  instead  of  seeking  her  service,  have  sought 
and  gained  the  dignities  which,  if  it  be  good  that  she 
have  it  in  her  power  to  bestow  them,  need  the  corrective 
of  a  sharply  wholesome  persecution,  which  of  late  times 
she  has  not  known.  But  God  knows,  and  the  fire  will 
come  in  its  course — first  in  the  form  of  just  indignation, 
it  may  be,  against  her  professed  servants,  and  then  in 
the  form  of  the  furnace  seven  times  heated,  in  which  the 
true  builders  shall  yet  walk  unhurt  save  as  to  their 
mortal  part. 

1  looked  about  for  some  cottage  where  the  sexton 
"might  be  supposed  to  live,  and  spied  a  slated  roof, 
nearly  on  a  level  with  the  road,  at  a  little  distance  in 
front  of  me.  I  could  at  least  inquire  there.  Before 
I  reached  it,  however,  an  elderly  woman  came  out  and 
approached  me.  She  was  dressed  in  a  white  cap  and 
a  dark-coloured  gown.  On  her  face  lay  a  certain  repose 
which  attracted  me.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  suffered, 
but  had  consented  to  it,  and  therefore  could  smile.  Her 
smile  lay  near  the  surface.  A  kind  word  was  enough 
to  draw  it  up  from  the  well  where  it  lay  shinmering : 
you  could  always  see  the  smile  there,  whether  it  was  born 
or  not.  But  even  when  she  smiled,  in  the  very  glimmer^ 
ing  of  that  moonbeam,  you  could  see  the  deep,  still, 
perhaps  dark,  waters  under.  Oh  !  if  one  could  but 
understand  what  goes  on  in  the  souls  that  have  no  words, 
perhaps  no  inclination  to  set  it  forth  !  What  had  she 
endured)    How  had   she  learned  to  have  that  smiW 


MORE    ABOUT    KILKHAV2N.  l6| 

always  near?  What  had  consoled  her,  and  yet  left 
her  her  grief — turned  it,  perhaps,  into  hope  I  Should 
I  ever  know  ? 

She  drew  near  me,  as  if  she  would  have  passed  me,  as 
she  would  have  done,  had  I  not  spoken.  I  think  she 
came  towards  me  to  give  me  the  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing if  I  wished,  but  she  would  not  address  me. 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said.  "  Can  you  tell  me  where 
to  find  the  sexton  f " 

"Well,  sir,"  she  answered,  with  a  gleam  of  the  smile 
brightening  underneath  her  old  skin,  as  it  were,  "  I  be 
all  the  sexton  you  be  likely  to  find  this  mornin*,  sir.  My 
husband,  he  be  gone  out  to  see  one  o*  Squire  Tregarva's 
hounds  as  was  took  ill  last  night  So  if  you  want  to  see 
the  old  church,  sir,  you  '11  have  to  be  content  with  an 
old  woman  to  show  you,  sir." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  content,  I  assure  you,"  I  answered 
"  Will  you  go  and  get  the  key  I " 

"  I  have  the  key  in  my  pocket,  sir ;  for  I  thought 
that  would  be  what  you'd  be  after,  sir.  And  by  the 
time  you  come  to  my  age,  sir,  you  '11  learn  to  think  of 
your  old  bones,  sir.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  making  so 
free.  For  mayhap,  says  I  to  myself,  he  be  the  gentle- 
man as  be  come  to  take  Mr  Shepherd's  duty  foi  him. 
Be  ye  now,  sir  1 " 

Ad  this  was  said  in  a  slow  sweet  subdued  tone,  nearly 
01  one  pitch.  You  would  have  felt  that  she  claimed  the 
privilege  of  age  with  a  kind  of  mournful  gaiety,  but  was 
careful,  and  anxious  even,  not  to  presume  upon  it,  and 
tlierefore  gentle  as  a  young  girl 


l66  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Yes,**  I  answered.  "  My  name  is  Walton.  I  have 
come  to  take  the  place  of  my  friend  Mr  Shepherd ;  and, 
of  course,  I  want  to  see  the  church.** 

"  Well,  she  be  a  bee-utiful  old  church.  Some  things, 
I  think,  sir,  grows  more  beautiful  the  older  they  grows. 
But  it  ain't  us,  sir." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  I  said.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

*  Well,  sir,  there  *s  my  little  grandson  in  the  cottage 
tnere:  he*ll  never  be  so  beautiful  again.  Them  children 
du  be  the  loves.  But  we  all  grows  uglier  as  we  grows 
older.     Churches  don't  seem  to,  sir." 

'm  not  so  sure  about  all  that,"  I  said  again. 

"  They  did  say,  sir,  that  I  was  a  pretty  girl  once. 
I*m  not  much  to  look  at  now." 

And  she  smiled  with  such  a  gracious  amusement,  that 
I  felt  at  once  that  if  there  was  any  vanity  left  in  this 
memory  of  her  past  loveliness,  it  was  as  sweet  as  the 
memory  of  their  old  fragrance  left  in  the  withered  leaves 
of  the  roses. 

"But  it  du  not  matter,  du  it,  sir?  Beauty  is  only 
fkin-deep." 

"  I  don*t  believe  that,"  I  answered.  **  Beauty  is  as 
deep  as. the  heart  at  least" 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  my  old  husband  du  say  I  be  as 
handsome  in  his  eyes  as  ever*  I  be.  But  I  beg  yoiv 
pardon,  sir,  for  talkin*  about  myself.  I  believe  it  was 
the  old  chfirch — she  set  us  on  to  it" 

"  The  old  church  didn't  lead  you  into  any  harm  then," 
I  answered.     "  The  beauty  that  is  in  the  heart  will  shin« 


MORE    ABOUT    KILKHAVEN.  l6'j 

out  of  the  face  again  some  day — ba  sure  of  that.  And 
after  all,  there  is  just  the  same  kind  of  beauty  in  a  good 
old  face  that  there  is  in  an  old  church.  You  can't  say 
the  church  is  so  trim  and  neat  as  it  was  the  day  that  the 
first  blast  of  the  organ  filled  it  as  with  a  living  soul.  The 
carving  is  not  quite  so  sharp,  the  timbers  are  not  quite 
so  clean.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  mould  and  worm- 
eating  and  cobwebs  about  the  old  place.  Yet  both  you 
and  I  think  it  more  beautiful  now  than  it  was  then. 
Well,  I  beheve  it  is,  as  nearly  as  possible,  the  same  with 
an  old  face.  It  has  got  stained,  and  weather-beaten,  and 
worn ;  but  if  the  organ  of  truth  has  been  playing  on  inside 
the  temple  of  the  Lord,  which  St  Paul  says  our  bodies 
are,  there  is  in  the  old  face,  though  both  form  and  com- 
plexion are  gone,  just  the  beauty  of  the  music  inside. 
The  wrinkles  and  the  brownness  can't  spoil  it  A  light 
shines  through  it  all — that  of  the  indwelling  spirit  I 
wish  we  all  grew  old  like  the  old  churches." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  I  thought  I  saw  in  her  face  that 
she  understood  my  mysticism.  We  had  been  walking 
very  slowl)',  had  passed  through  the  quaint  lych-gate, 
and  now  the  old  woman  had  got  the  key  in  the  lock  of 
the  door,  whose  archway  was  figured  and  fashioned  as  I 
have  described  above,  with  a  dozen  moulding*  oi  mof^ 
noat  o^  them  **  carved  so  curiously.* 


•    CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

]HE  awe  that  dwells  in  churches  fetl  upon  me 
as  I  crossed  the  threshold — an  awe  I  never 
fail  to  feel — heightened,  in  many  cases,  no 
doubt,  by  the  sense  of  antiquity  and  of  art, 
but  an  awe  which  I  have  felt  all  the  same  in  crossing 
the  threshold  of  an  old  Puritan  conventicle,  as  the  place 
where  men  worship  and  have  worshipped  the  God  of 
their  fathers,  although  for  art  there  was  only  the  science 
of  common  bricklaying,  and  for  beauty  staring  ugliness. 
To  the  involuntary  fancy*  the  air  of  petition  and  of  holy 
need  seems  to  linger  in  the  place,  and  the  uncovered 
iiead  acknowledges  the  sacred  symbols  of  human  aspira- 
tion and  divine  revealing.  But  this  was  no  ordinary 
church  into  which  I  followed  the  gentlewoman  who  was 
my  guide.  As  entering  I  turned  my  eyes  eastward,  a 
flush  of  subdued  glory  invaded  them  fror.i  the  chancel, 
all  tlie  windows  of  which  were  of  richly-stained  glass» 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  l6p 


and  the  roof  of  carved  oak  lavishly  gilded.  I  had  my 
thoughts  about  this  chancel,  and  thence  about  chancels 
generilly,  which  nmy  appear  in  another  part  of  my  story. 
Now  I  have  to  do  only  with  the  church,  not  with  the 
cogitations  to  which  it  gave  rise.  But  I  will  not  trouble 
iny  reader  with  even  what  I  could  tell  him  of  the  blend- 
ing and  contradicting  of  styles  and  modes  of  architec- 
tural thought  in  the  edifice.  Age  is  to  the  work  of 
contesting  human  hands  a  wonderful  harmonizer  of 
differences.  As  nature  brings  into  harmony  all  fractures 
of  her  frame,  and  even  positive  intrusions  upon  he? 
realm,  clothes  and  discolours  them,  in  the  old  sense  of 
the  word,  so  that  at  length  there  is  no  immediate  shock 
at  sight  of  that  which  in  itself  was  crude,  and  is  yet 
coarse,  so  the  various  architecture  of  this  building  had 
been  gone  over  after  the  builders  by  the  musical  hand 
of  Eld,  with  wonder  of  delicate  transition  and  change  of 
key,  that  one  could  almost  fancy  the  music  of  its  ex- 
quisite organ  had  been  at  work  informing  the  building, 
half-melting  the  sutures,  wearing  the  sharpness,  and 
blending  the  angles,  until  in  some  parts  there  was  but 
the  gentle  flickering  of  the  original  conception  left,  all 
its  self-assertion  vanished  under  the  file  of  the  air  and 
the  gnawing  of  the  worm.  True,  the  hand  of  the 
restorer  had  been  busy,  but  it  had  wrought  lovingly  and 
gently,  and  wherein  it  had  erred,  the  same  influences  of 
nature,  though  as  yet  their  effects  were  invisible,  were 
already  at  work — of  tlie  many  making  one.  I  will  not 
trouble  my  reader,  I  say,  with  any  architectural  descrip- 
tion, which,  possibly  even  more  than  a  detailed  descrip- 


I70  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

tion  of  natural  beauty  dissociated  from  human  feeling, 
would  only  weary  him,  even  if  it  were  not  unintelligible. 
When  we  are  reading  a  poem,  we  do  not  first  of  all 
examine  the  construction  and  dwell  on  the  rhymes  and 
rhythms ;  all  that  comes  after,  if  we  find  that  the  poem 
itself  is  so  good  that  its  parts  are  therefor  worth  examin- 
ing, as  being  probably  good  in  themselves,  and  elucida- 
tory of  the  main  work.  There  were  carvings  on  the 
ends  of  the  benches  all  along  the  aisle  on  both  sides 
well  worth  examination,  and  some  of  them  even  of 
description ;  but  I  shall  not  linger  on  these.  A  word 
only  about  the  columns :  they  supported  arches  of 
different  fashion  on  the  opposite  sides,  but  they  were 
themselves  similar  in  matter  and  construction,  both 
remarkable.  They  were  of  coarse  granite  of  the  country, 
chiselled,  but  very  far  from  smooth,  not  to  say  pohshed. 
Each  pillar  was  a  single  stone,  with  chamfered  sides. 

Walking  softly  through  the  ancient  house,  forgetting 
in  the  many  thoughts  that  arose  within  me  that  I  had  a 
companion,  I  came  at  length  into  the  tower,  the  base- 
ment of  which  was  open,  forming  part  of  the  body  of 
the  church.  There  hung  many  ropes  through  holes  in 
a  ceiling  above,  for  bell-ringing  was  encouraged  and 
indeed  practised  by  my  friend  Shepherd.  And  as  I 
regarded  them,  I  thought  within  myself  how  delightful 
it  would  be  if  in  these  days,  as  in  those  of  Samuel,  the 
word  of  God  was  precious ;  so  that  when  it  came  to  the 
minister  of  his  people — a  fresh  vision  of  his  glory,  a 
discovery  of  his  meaning — he  might  make  haste  to  the 
church  and  into  the  tower,  lay  hold  of  the  rope  that 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  I7I 

hung  from  the  deepest-toned  bell  of  all,  and  constrain 
it  by  the  force  of  strong  arms  to  utter  its  voice  of  call, 
"Come  hither,  come  hear,  my  people,  for  God  hath 
spoken ;"  and  from  the  streets  or  the  lanes  would  troop 
the  eager  folk;  the  plough  be  left  in  the  furrow,  the 
cream  in  the  churn ;  and  the  crowding  people  bring 
faces  into  the  church,  all  with  one  question  upon  them 
— "  What  hath  the  Lord  spoken  V*  But  now  it  would 
be  answer  sufficient  to  such  a  call  to  say,  "  But  what 
will  become  of  the  butter?"  or,  "An  hour's  ploughing 
will  be  lost."  And  the  clergy — how  would  they  bring 
about  such  a  time?-  They  do  not  even  believe  that 
God  has  a  word  to  his  people  through  them.  They 
think  that  his  word  is  petrified  for  use  in  the  Bible  and 
Prayer-book ;  that  the  wise  men  of  old  heard  so  mucli 
of  the  word  of  God,  and  have  so  set  it  down,  that  there 
is  no  need  for  any  more  words  of  the  Lord  coming  to 
the  prophets  of  a  land ;  therefore  they  look  down  upon 
the  prophesying — that  is,  the  preaching  of  the  word — 
make  light  of  it,  the  best  of  them,  say  these  prayers  are 
everything,  oi  all  but  everything:  t/ieir  hearts  are  not 
set  upon  hearing  what  God  the  Lord  will  speak,  that  they 
may  speak  it  abroad  to  his  people  again.  Therefore  it 
is  no  wonder  if  the  church  bells  are  obedient  only  to  the 
clock,  are  no  longer  subject  to  the  spirit  of  the  minister, 
and  have  nothing  to  do  in  telegraphing  between  heaven 
and  earth.  They  make  little  of  this  part  of  their  duty  ; 
and  no  wonder,  if  what  is  to  be  spoken  must  remain 
such  as  they  speak.  They  put  the  Church  for  God,  nnd 
the  prayers,  which  are  the  word  of  man  to  God,  foi  thr 


17a  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

word  of  God  to  man.  But  when  the  prophets  see  no 
vision,  how  should  they  have  any  word  to  speak  1 

These  thoughts  were  passing  through  my  mind  when 
my  eye  fell  upon  my  guide.  She  was  seated  against  the 
south  wall  of  the  tower,  on  a  stool,  I  thought,  or  small 
table.  While  I  was  wandering  about  the  church  she 
had  taken  her  stocking  and  wires  out  of  her  pocket,  and 
was  now  knitting  busily.  How  her  needles  did  go! 
Her  eyes  never  regarded  them,  however,  but,  fixed  on 
the  slabs  that  paved  the  tower  at  a  yard  or  two  from 
her  feet,  seemed  to  be  gazing  far  out  to  sea,  for  they 
had  an  infinite  objectless  outlook.  .To  try  her,  I  took 
for  the  moment  the  position  of  an  accuser. 

"  So  you  don't  mind  working  in  church  1"     I  said. 

When  I  spoke  she  instantly  rose,  her  eyes  turned  as 
from  the  far  sea-waves  to  my  face,  and  light  came  out  of 
them.     With  a  smile  she  answered — 

"  The  church  knows  me,  sir." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  itl" 

"  I  don't  think  she  minds  it  We  are  told  to  be 
diligent  in  business,  you  know,  sir.** 

"  Yes,  but  it  does  not  say  in  church  and  out  of  church. 
You  could  be  diligent  somewhere  else,  couldn't  youl" 

As  soon  as  I  said  this,  I  began  to  fear  she  would  think 
I  meant  it.  But  she  only  smiled  and  said,  "  It  won't 
hurt  she,  sir ;  and  my  good  man,  who  does  all  he  can 
to  keep  her  tidy,  is  out  at  toes  and  heels,  and  if  I 
don't  keep  he  warm  he'll  be  laid  up,  and  then  the  church 
won't  be  kep'  nice,  sir,  till  he's  up  again." 

I  was  tempted  to  go  on. 


THE    OLD    CHURCH  I73 

**  But  you  could  have  sat- down  outside — there  are 
some  nice  gravestones  near — and  waited  till  1  came 
out" 

"But  what's  the  church  for.  sir!  The  sun  's  werr}'hot 
to-day,  sir ;  and  Mi  Shepherd,  he  say,  sir,  that  the  church 
is  like  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.  So, 
you  see,  if  I  was  to  sit  out  in  the  sun,  instead  of  comin' 
in  here  to  the  cool  o'  the  shadow,  I  wouldn't  be  takin' 
the  church  at  her  word.  It  does  my  heart  good  to  sit 
in  the  old  church,  sir.  There 's  a  something  do  seem 
to  come  out  o'  the  old  walls  and  settle  down  like  the 
cool  o'  the  day  upon  my  old  heart  that 's  nearly  tired  o* 
crying,  and  would  fain  keep  its  eyes  dry  for  the  rest  o' 
the  journey.  My  old  man's  stockin'  won't  hurt  the  church, 
sir,  and,  bein'  a  good  deed,  as  I  suppose  it  is,  it 's  none 
the  worse  for  the  place.  I  think,  if  He  was  to  come  by 
wi'  the  whip  o'  small  cords,  I  wouldn't  be  afeard  of  his 
layin'  it  upo'  my  old  back.  Do  you  think  he  would, 
sir?" 

Thus  driven  to  speak  as  I  thought,  I  made  haste  to 
reply,  more  delighted  with  the  result  of  my  experiment 
than  I  cared  to  let  her  know. 

*'  Indeed  I  do  not  I  was  only  talking.  It  is  but 
selfish,  cheating,  or  ill-done  work  that  the  church's  Master 
drives  away.  All  our  work  ought  to  be  done  in  the 
shadow  of  the  church." 

"  I  thought  you  be  only  having  a  talk  about  it,  sir," 
she  said,  smiling  her  sweet  old  smi.e.  "  Nobody  knows 
what  this  old  church  is  to  me." 

Now  the  old  woman  had  a  good  husband,  apparently  j 


174  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  sorrows  which  had  left  their  mark  even  upon  hei 
smile,  must  have  come  from  her  family,  I  thought. 

"  You  have  had  a  family  1 "  I  said,  interrogatively. 

"  I  've  had  thirteen/*  she  answered.  "  Six  bys  and 
seven  maidens." 

"  Why,  you  are  rich  I "  I  returned.  **  And  where  are 
they  all  1" 

"  Four  maidens  be  lying  in  the  churchyard,  sir ;  two 
be  married,  and  one  be  down  in  the  mill,  there." 

"  And  your  boys  ?  " 

**  One  of  them  be  lyin'  beside  his  sisters — drownded 
afore  my  eyes,  sir.  Three  o'  them  be  at  sea,  and  two  o' 
them  in  it,  sir."  ' 

At  sea  !  1  thought.  What  a  wide  where!  As  vague 
to  the  imagination,  almost,  as  in  the  other  world.  How  a 
mother's  thoughts  must  go  roaming  about  the  waste,  like 
birds  that  have  lost  their  nest,  to  find  them  1 

As  this  thought  kept  me  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
she  resumed, 

"  It  be  no  wonder,  be  it,  sir,  that  I  like  to  creep  into 
the  church  with  my  knitting  ?  Many 's  the  stormy  night, 
when  my  husband  couldn't  keep  still,  but  would  be  out 
on  the  cliffs  or  on  the  breakwater,  for  no  good  in  life, 
but  just  to  hear  the  roar  of  the  waves  that  he  could  only 
See  by  the  white  of  them,  with  the  balls  o*  foam  flying 
in  his  face  in  the  dark — many's  the  such  a  night  that  1 
have  left  the  house  after  he  was  gone,  with  this  blessed 
key  in  my  hand,  and  crept  into  the  old  church  here,  and 
sat  down  where  I  'm  sittin'  now — leastways  where  I  was 
sittin'  when  your  reverence  spoke  to  me — and  hearkened 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  I7S 

to  the  wind  howling  about  the  place.  The  church  win- 
dows never  rattle,  sir — like  the  cottage  windows,  as  I 
suppose  you  know,  sir.  Somehow,  I  feel  safe  in  the 
churcii." 

•*  But  if  you  had  sons  at  sea,"  said  I,  again  wishing  to 
draw  her  out,  "  it  would  not  be  of  much  good  to  you  to 
feel  safe  yourself,  so  long  as  they  were  in  danger." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  it  be,  sir.  What's  the  good  of  feeling  safe 
yourself  but  it  let  you  know  other  people  be  safe  tool 
It's  when  you  don't  feel  safe  yourself  that  you  feel  other 
people  be  n't  safe." 

"  But,"  I  said — and  such  confidence  I  had  from  what 
she  had  already  uttered,  that  I  was  sure  the  experiment 
was  not  a  cruel  one — "  some  of  your  sons  were  drowned 
for  all  that  you  say  about  their  safety." 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  trust  they're 
none  the  less  safe  for  that.  It  would  be  a  strange  thing 
for  an  old  woman  like  me,  well-nigh  threescore  and  ten, 
to  suppose  that  safety  lay  not  in  being  drownded.  Why, 
they  might  ha'  been  cast  on  a  desert  island,  and  wasted 
to  skin  and  bone,  and  got  home  again  wi'  the  loss  of  half 
the  wits  they  set  out  with.  Wouldn't  that  ha*  been  worse 
than  being  drownded  right  off?  And  that  wouldn't  ha' 
been  the  worst,  either.  The  church  she  seem  to  tell  me 
all  the  time,  that  for  all  the  roaring  outside,  there  be 
really  no  danger  after  alL  What  matter  if  they  go  to 
the  bottom  %  What  is  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  sir  ?  You 
bein'  a  clergyman  can  tell  that,  sir.  I  shouldn't  hV 
known  it  if  I  hadn't  had  bys  o'  ray  own  at  sea,  sir.  But 
jrou  can  tell,  sir,  though  you  'ain't  got  none  there." 


176  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


And  though  she  was  putting  her  parson  to  his  cate- 
chism, the  smile  that  returned  on  her  face  was  as  modest 
-IS  if  she  had  only  been  hstening  to  his  instruction.  I 
had  not  long  to  look  for  my  answer. 

"  The  hollow  of  his  hand,"  I  said,  and  said  no  more. 

**  I  thought  you  would  knov/  it,  sir,"  she  returned,  with 
a  little  glow  of  triumph  in  her  tone.  "  Well,  then,  that /s 
just  what  the  church  tells  me,  when  I  come  in  here  in 
the  stormy  nights.  I  bring  my  knitting  then  too,  sir,  for 
1  can  knit  in  the  dark  as  well  as  in  the  light  almost;  and 
when  they  come  home,  if  they  do  come  home,  they  're 
none  the  worse  that  I  went  to  the  old  church  to  pray 
for  them.  There  it  goes  roaring  about  them,  poor 
dears,  all  out  there  ;  and  their  old  mother  sitting  still  as 
a  stone  almost  in  the  quiet  old  church,  a  caring  for 
them.  And  then  it  do  come  across  me,  sir,  that  God  be 
a-sitting  in  his  own  house  at  home,  hearing  all  the  noise 
and  all  the  roaring  in  which  his  children  are  tossed 
al^out  in  the  world,  watching  it  all,  letting  it  drown  some 
o'  them  and  take  them  back  to  him,  and  keeping  it 
from  going  too  far  with  others  of  them  that  are  not 
quite  ready  for  that  same.  I  have  my  thoughts,  you  see, 
sir,  though  I  be  an  old  woman,  and  not  nice  to  look  at* 

I  had  come  upon  a  genius.  How  nature  laughs  at 
our  schools  sometimes  !  Education,  so-called,  is  a  fine 
thing,  and  might  be  a  better  thing  ;  but  there  is  an  educa- 
tion, that  of  life,  which  when  seconded  by  a  pure  will  to 
learn,  leaves  the  schools  behind,  even  as  the  horse  of  the 
desert  would  leave  behind  the  slow  pomposity  of  the 
common-ied  uoose.     For  life  is  God's  school  and  they 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  177 

that  will  listen  to  the  Master  there  will  learn  at  God's 
speed.  For  one  moment,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  was 
envious  of  Shepherd,  and  repined  that,  now  old  Rogers 
was  gone,  I  had  no  such  glorious  old  stained-glass-win- 
dow in  my  church  to  let  m  the  eternal  upon  my  light- 
thirsty  soul.  I  must  say  for  myself  that  the  feeling 
lasted  but  for  a  moment,  and  that  no  sooner  had  the 
shadow  of  it  passed,  and  the  true  light  shined  after  it, 
than  I  was  heartily  ashamed  of  it.  Why  should  not 
Shepherd  have  the  old  woman  as  well  as  I  ]  True, 
Shepherd  was  more  of  what  would  now  be  called  a 
rituahst  than  I ;  true,  I  thought  my  doctrine  simpler  and 
therefore  better  than  his ;  but  was  this  any  reason  why  I 
should  have  all  the  grand  people  to  minister  to  in  my 
parish !  Recovering  myself,  I  found  her  last  words  still 
in  my  ears. 

"  You  are  very  nice  to  look  at,"  I  said.  "  You  must 
not  find  fault  with  the  work  of  God,  because  you  would 
like  better  to  be  young  and  pretty  than  to  be  as  you 
now  are.  Time  and  time's  rents  and  furrows  are  all  his 
making  and  his  doing.     God  makes  nothing  ugly." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  that,  sir?" 

I  paused.  Such  a  question  from  such  a  woman 
"  must  give  us  pause."  And,  as  T  paused,  the  thought 
of  certain  animals  flashed  into  my  mind,  and  I  could  not 
insist  that  God  had  never  made  anything  ugly. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  sure  of  it,"  I  answered.  For  of  all 
things  my  soul  recoiled  from,  any  professional  pretence 
of  knowing  more  than  I  did  know  seemed  to  me  the 
most  repugnant  to  the  spirit  and  mind  of  the  Mastery 


178  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

whose  servants  we  are,  or  but  the  servants  of  mei5 
priestly  delusion  and  self-seeking.  "  But  if  he  does,"  I 
went  on  to  say,  "it  must  be  that  we  may  see  what  it  "s 
like,  and  therefore  not  like  it.** 

Then,  unwilling  all  at  once  to  plunge  with  her  into 
such  an  abyss  as  the  question  opened,  I  turned  the  con- 
versation to  an  object  on  which  my  eyes  had  been  for 
some  time  resting  half-unconsciously.  It  was  the  sort  of 
stool  or  bench  on  which  my  guide  had  been  sitting.  I 
now  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  box  or  chest.  It  was 
curiously  carved  in  old  oak,  very  much  like  the  ends  of 
the  benches  and  book-boards. 

"  What  is  that  you  are  sitting  on  ?"  I  asked.  **  A  chest 
or  what  V 

**  It  be  there  when  we  come  to  this  place,  and  that  be 
nigh  fifty  years  agone,  sir.  But  what  it  be,  you'll  be 
better  able  to  tell  than  I  be,  sir." 

**  Perhaps  a  chest  for  holding  the  communion-plate  in 
old  time,"  I  said.  "  But  how  should  it  then  come  to  be 
banished  to  the  tower  1" 

"  No,  sir  ;  it  can't  be  that.  It  be  some  sort  of  ancient 
musical  piano,  I  be  thinking." 

I  stooped  and  saw  that  its  lid  was  shaped  like  the 
cover  of  an  organ.  With  some  difficulty  I  opened  it ; 
and  there,  to  be  sure,  was  a  row  of  huge  keys,  fit  for  the 
fingers  of  a  Cyclops.  I  pressed  upon  them,  one  after 
another,  but  no  sound  followed.  They  were  stiff  to  the 
touch  ;  and  once  down,  so  they  mostly  remained  until 
iifted  again.  I  looked  if  there  was  any  sign  of  a 
bellows,  thinking  it  must  have  been  some  primitive  kind 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  I79 

of  reed-instrument,  like  what  we  call  a  seraphine  or  har- 
monium now-a-days.  But  there  was  no  hole  through 
which  there  could  have  been  any  communication  with 
or  from  a  bellows,  although  there  might  have  been  a 
small  one  inside.  There  were,  however,  a  dozen  little 
round  holes  in  the  fixed  part  of  the  top,  which  might 
afiford  some  clue  to  the  mystery  of  its  former  life.  I 
could  not  find  any  way  of  reaching  the  inside  of  it,  so 
strongly  was  it  put  together;  therefore  I  was  left,  I 
thought,  to  the  efforts  of  my  imagination  alone  for  any 
hope  of  discovery  with  regard  to  the  instrument,  seeing 
further  observation  was  impossible.  But  here  I  found  that 
I  was  mistaken  in  two  important  conclusions,  the  latter  of 
which  depended  on  the  former.  The  first  of  these  was 
that  it  was  an  instrument :  it  was  only  one  end  of  an  in- 
strument ;  therefore,  secondly,  there  might  be  room  for 
observation  still.  But  I  found  this  out  by  accident, 
which  has  had  a  share  in  most  discoveries,  and  which, 
meaning  a  something  that  falls  into  our  hands  unlooked 
for,  is  so  far  an  unobjectionable  word  even  to  the  man 
who  does  not  believe  in  chance.  I  had  for  the  time 
given  up  the  question  as  insoluble,  and  was  gazing  about 
the  place,  when,  glancing  up  at  the  holes  in  the  ceiling 
through  which  the  bell-ropes  went,  I  spied  two  or  three 
thick  wires  hanging  through  the  same  ceiling  close  to  the 
wall,  and  right  over  the  box  with  the  keys.  The  vague 
suspicion  of  a  discovery  dawned  upon  me. 

"  Have  you  got  the  key  of  the  tower  V*  I  asked. 

"  No,  sir.     But  I  '11  run  home  for  it  at  once,"  slie  aa* 
iwered.     And  rising,  she  went  out  in  haste. 


l8o  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  Run  !  *'  thought  I,  looking  after  her.  "  It  is  a  word 
of  the  will  and  the  feeling,  not  of  the  body."  But  I  was 
mistaken.  The  dear  old  creature  had  no  sooner  got  out- 
side of  the  churchyard,  within  which,  I  presume,  she  felt 
that  she  must  be  decorous,  than  she  did  run,  and  ran  well 
too.  I  was  on  the  point  of  starting  after  her  at  full 
speed,  to  prevent  her  from  hurting  herself,  but  reflecting 
that  her  own  judgment  ought  to  be  as  good  as  mine  in 
such  a  case,  I  returned,  and  sitting  down  on  her  seat, 
awaited  her  reappearance,  gazing  at  the  ceiling.  There  I 
either  saw,  or  imagined  I  saw,  signs  of  openings  cor- 
responding in  number  and  position  with  those  in  the  lid 
under  me.  In  about  three  minutes  the  old  woman 
returned,  panting  but  not  distressed,  with  a  great 
crooked  old  key  in  her  hand.  Why  are  all  the  keys 
of  a  church  so  crooked  ?  J  did  not  ask  her  that  ques- 
tion, though.     What  I  said  to  her  was — 

"  You  shouldn't  run  like  that.  I  am  in  no 
hurry." 

"  Be  you  not,  sir  t  I  thought,  by  the  way  you  spoke, 
you  be  taken  with  a  longing  to  get  a-top  o'  the  tower, 
and  see  all  about  you  like.  For  you  see,  sir,  fond  as  I 
be  of  the  old  church,  I  du  feel  sometimes  as  if  she'd 
smother  me ;  and  then  nothing  will  do,  but  I  must  get 
at  the  top  of  the  old  tower.  And  then,  what  with  the 
sun,  if  there  be  any  sun,  and  what  with  the  fresh  air 
which  there  al-ways  be  up  there,  sir — it  du  always  be 
fresh  up  there,  sir,"  she  repeated,  "  I  come  back  down 
again  blessing  llie  old  cliurch  for  its  tower." 

As  she  spoke  she  was  toiling  up  the  winding  staircis« 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  l8l 


after  me,  where  there  was  just  room  enough  for  my 
shoulders  to  get  through  by  turning  themselves  a  little 
across  the  lie  of  the  steps.  •  They  were  very  high,  but 
she  kept  up  with  me  bravely,  bearing  out  her  statement 
that  she  was  no  stranger  to  them.  As  I  ascended,  how- 
ever I  was  not  thinking  of  her,  but  of  what  she  had  said. 
Strange  to  tell,  the  significance  of  the  towers  or  spires  of 
our  churches  had  never  been  clear  to  me  before.  True, 
I  was  quite  awake  to  their  significance,  at  least  to  that 
of  the  spires,  as  fingers  pointing  ever  upwards  to 

"  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air. 
Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot. 
Which  men  call  Earth  ; " 

but  I  had  not  thought  of  their  symbolism  as  lifting  one 
up  above  the  church  itself  into  a  region  where  no  church 
is  wanted,  because  the  Lord  God  almighty  and  the 
Lamb  are  the  temple  of  it.  Happy  church,  indeed,  if  it 
destroys  the  need  of  itself  by  lifting  men  up  into  the 
eternal  kingdom !  Would  that  I  and  all  her  servants 
lived  pervaded  with  the  sense  of  this  her  high  end,  her 
one  high  calling  I  We  need  the  church  towers  to  remind 
us  that  the  mephitic  airs  in  the  church  below  are  from 
the  churchyard  at  its  feet,  which  so  many  take  for  the 
church,  worshipping  over  the  graves  and  believing  in 
death — or  at  least  in  the  material  substance  over  which 
alone  death  has  power.  Thus  the  church,  even  in  her 
corruption,  lifts  us  out  of  her  corruption,  sending  us  up 
her  towers  and  her  spires  to  admonish  us  that  she  too 
lives  in  the  air  of  tmth  j  that  her  form  too  must  pass 


t8j  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

away,  while  the  truth  that  is  embodied  in  her  lives  be- 
yond forms  and  customs  and  prejudices,  shining  as  the 
stars  for  ever  and  ever.  He  whom  the  church  does  not 
lift  up  above  the  church  is  not  worthy  to  be  a  doorkeeper 
therein. 

Such  thoughts  passed  through  me,  satisfied  me,  and 
left  me  peaceful,  so  that  before  I  had  reached  the  top,  I 
was  thanking  the  Lord — not  for  his  chuich-tower,  but 
for  his  sexton's  wife.  The  old  woman  was  a  jewel.  If 
hej  husband  was  hke  her,  which  was  too  much  to  ex- 
pect— if  he  believed  in  her,  it  would  be  enough,  quite — 
then  indeed  the  little  child,  who  answered  on  being 
questioned  thereanent,  as  the  Scotch  would  say,  that  the 
three  orders  of  ministers  in  the  church  were  the  parson, 
clerk,  and  sexton,  might  not  be  so  far  wrong  in  respect 
of  this  individual  case.  So  in  the  ascent,  and  the  think- 
ing associated  therewith,  I  forgot  all  about  the  special 
object  for  which  I  had  requested  the  key  of  the  tower, 
and  led  the  way  myself  up  to  the  summit,  where  stepping 
out  of  a  little  door,  which  being  turned  only  heavenwards 
had  no  pretence  for,  or  claim  upon  a  curiously  crooked 
key,  but  opened  to  the  hand  laid  upon  the  latch,  I 
thought  of  the  words  of  the  judicious  Hooker,  that 
"  the  assembling  of  the  church  to  learn "  was  **  the 
receiving  of  angels  descended  from  above  ; "  and  in  sucii 
a  whimsical  turn  as  our  thoughts  will  often  take  when 
we  are  not  heeding  them,  I  wondered  for  a  moment 
whether  that  was  why  the  upper  door  was  left  on  the 
latch,  forgetting  that  that  could  not  be  of  much  use,  if 
the  door  in  the   basement  was  kept  locked  with  the 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  iSj 


crooked  key.  But  the  whole  suggested  something  true 
about  my  own  heart  and  that  of  my  fellows,  if  not  about 
the  church.  Revelation  is  not  enough,  the  open  top- 
door  is  not  enough,  if  the  door  of  the  heart  is  not  open 
likewise. 

As  soon,  however,  as  I  stepped  out  upon  the  roof  of 
the  tower,  I  forgot  again  all  that  had  thus  passed  through 
my  mind,  swift  as  a  dream.  For,  tilling  the  west,  lay  the 
ocean  beneath,  with  a  dark  curtain  of  storm  hanging  in 
perpendicular  lines  over  part  of  its  horizon,  and  on  the 
other  side  was  the  peaceful  solid  land,  with  its  number- 
less shades  of  green,  its  heights  and  hollows,  its  farms 
and  wooded  vales — there  was  not  much  wood — its  scat- 
tered villages  and  country  dwellings,  lighted  and  shadowed 
by  the  sun  and  the  clouds.  Beyond  lay  the  blue  heights 
of  Dartmoor.  And  over  all,  bathing  us  as  it  passed, 
moved  the  wind,  the  life-bearing  spirit  of  the  whole,  the 
servant  of  the  sun.  The  old  woman  stood  beside  me, 
silently  enjoying  my  enjoyment,  with  a  still  smile  that 
seemed  to  say,  in  kindly  triumph,  "Was  I  not  right  about 
the  tower  and  the  wind  that  dwells  among  its  pinnacles?" 
I  drank  deep  of  the  universal  flood,  the  outspread  peace, 
the  glory  of  the  sun,  and  the  haunting  shadow  of  the 
sea  that  lay  beyond  like  the  visual  image  of  the  eternal 
silence — as  it  looks  to  us — that  rounds  our  little  earthly 
life. 

There  were  a  good  many  trees  in  the  churchyard, 
and  as  I  looked  down,  the  tops  of  them  in  their  ncliest 
foliage  hid  all  the  graves  directly  below  me,  except  a 
single  flat  stone  looking  up  through  an  opening  in  the 


184  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

/eaves,  which  seemed  to  have  been  just  made  for  it  to 
let  it  see  the  top  of  the  tower.  Upon  the  stone  a  child 
was  seated  playing  with  a  few  flowers  she  had  gathered, 
not  once  looking  up  to  the  gilded  vanes  that  rose  from 
the  four  pinnacles  at  the  corners  of  the  tower.  I  turned 
to  the  eastern  side,  and  looked  over  upon  the  church 
roof.  It  lay  far  below — looking  very  narrow  and  small, 
but  long,  with  the  four  ridges  of  four  steep  roofs 
stretching  away  to  the  eastern  end.  It  was  in  excel- 
lent repair,  for  the  parish  was  almost  all  in  one  lord's 
possession,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  church  :  between 
them  he  and  Mr  Shepherd  had  made  it  beautiful  to  be- 
hold, and  strong  to  endure. 

When  I  turned  to  look  again,  the  little  child  was  gone. 
Some  butterfly  fancy  had  seized  her,  and  she  was  away. 
A  little  lamb  was  in  her  place,  nibbling  at  the  grass  thai 
grew  on  the  side  of  the  next  mound.  And  when  ] 
looked  seaward  there  was  a  sloop,  like  a  white-winged 
sea-bird,  rounding  the  end  of  a  high  projecting  rock  from 
the  south,  to  bear  up  the  little  channel  that  led  to  the 
gates  of  the  harbour  canal.  Out  of  the  circling  waters  it 
had  flown  home,  not  from  a  long  voyage,  but  hardly  the 
less  welcome  therefore  to  those  that  waited  and  looked 
for  her'signal  from  the  barrier  rock. 

Re-entering  by  the  angels'  door  to  descend  the  narrow 
cork-screw  stair,  so  dark  and  cool,  I  caught  a  glimpse, 
one  tu.rn  down,  by  the  feeble  light  that  came  through  its 
chinks  after  it  was  shut  behind  us,  of  a  tiny  maiden-haii 
fei-n  growing  out  of  the  wall  I  stopped  and  said  to  tho 
old  woman— 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  18$ 

"  I  have  a  sick  daughter  at  home,  or  I  wouldn't  rob 
your  tower  of  this  lovely  little  thing." 

"  Well,  sir,  what  eyes  you  have  !  I  never  saw  the  thing 
before.  Do  take  it  home  to  miss.  It  '11  do  her  good  to 
see  it  I  be  main  sorry  to  hear  you  've  got  a  sick  maiden. 
She  Len't  a  bedlar,  be  she,  sir  1  '* 

I  was  busy  with  my  knife  getting  out  all  the  roots  I 
could  without  hurting  them,  and  before  I  had  succeeded 
I  had  remembered  Turner's  using  the  word. 

"  Not  quite  that,"  I  answered,  "  but  she  can't  even 
sit  up,  and  must  be  carried  everywhere." 

"  Poor  dear  !  Every  one  has  their  troubles,  sir.  The 
sea  's  been  mine." 

She  continued  talking  and  asking  kind  questions 
about  Connie  as  we  went  down  the  stair.  Not  till  she 
opened  a  little  door  I  had  passed  without  observing  it  as 
we  came  up,  was  I  reminded  of  my  first  object  in  as- 
cending the  tower.  For  this  door  revealed  a  number  of 
bells  hanging  in  silent  power  in  the  brown  twilight  of  the 
place.  I  ent-^red  carefully,  for  there  were  only  some 
planks  laid  upon  the  joists  to  keep  one's  feet  from  going 
through  the  ceiling.  In  a  few  moments  I  had  satisfied 
myself  that  my  conjecture  about  the  keys  below  was 
correct  The  small  iron  rods  I  had  seen  from  beneath 
hung  down  from  this  place.  There  were  more  of  them 
hanging  shorter  above,  and  there  was  yet  enough  of  a 
further  mechanism  remaining  to  prove  that  those  keys, 
oy  means  of  the  looped  and  cranked  rods,  had  been  in 
connexion  with  hammers,  one  of  them  indeed  remaining 
Sklso,  which  struck  tJie  hells,  so  thai  a  tune  could  be  played 


|86  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

upon  them  as  upon  any  other  keyed  instrument.  This 
was  the  first  contrivance  of  the  kind  I  had  ever  seen, 
though  I  have  heard  of  it  in  other  churches  since. 

"  If  I  could  find  a  clever  blacksmith  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, now,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  would  get  this  all  re- 
paired, so  that  it  should  not  interfere  with  the  bell-ring- 
ing when  the  ringers  were  to  be  had,  and  yet  Shepherd 
could  play  a  psalm  tune  to  his  parish  at  large  when  he 
pleased."  For  Shepherd  was  a  very  fair  musician,  and 
gave  a  good  deal  of  time  to  the  organ.  "  It 's  a  grand 
notion,  to  think  of  him  sitting  here  in  the  gloom,  with  that 
great  musical  instrument  towering  above  him,  whence  he 
sends  forth  the  voice  of  gladness,  almost  of  song  to  his 
people,  while  they  are  mowing  the  grass,  binding  the 
sheaves,  or  gazing  abroad  over  the  stormy  ocean  in  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  fear.  *  There 's  the  parson  at  his  bells,'  they 
would  say,  and  stop  and  listen ;  and  some  phrase  might 
sink  into  their  hearts,  waking  some  memory,  or  giving 
birth  to  some  hope  or  faint  aspiration.  I  will  see  what 
can  be  done."  Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  I  left 
the  abode  of  the  bells,  descended  to  the  church,  bade  my 
conductress  good  morning,  saying  I  would  visit  her  soon 
in  her  own  house,  and  bore  home  to  my  child  the  spoil 
wliich,  without  kirk-rapine,  I  had  torn  from  the  wall  of 
the  sanctuary.  By  this  time  the  stormy  veil  had  lifted 
from  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  was  shining  in  full  power 
wiihout  one  darkening  cloud. 

Ere  I  left  the  churchyard  I  would  have  a  glance  at 
tlie  stone  which  ever  seemed  to  lie  gazing  up  at  the 
tov  er.     1  soon  found  it,  because  it  was  the  only  one 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  187 

in  that  quarter  from  which  I  could  see  the  top  of  the 

tower.     It  recorded  the  Hfe  and  death  of  an  aged  pair 

who  had  been  married  fifty  years,  concluding  with  the 

couplet — 

•*  A  long^  time  this  may  seem  to  be, 

But  it  did  not  seem  long  to  we." 

The  whole  story  of  a  human  life  lay  in  that  last  verse. 
True,  it  was  not  good  grammar,  but  they  had  got  through 
fifty  years  of  wedded  life  probably  without  any  knowledge 
of  grammar  to  harmonize  or  to  shorten  them,  and  I 
daresay,  had  they  been  acquainted  with  the  lesson  he 
had  put  into  their  dumb  mouths,  they  would  have  been 
aware  of  no  ground  of  quarrel  with  the  poetic  stone- 
cutter, who  most  likely  had  thrown  the  verses  in 
when  he  made  his  claim  for  the  stone  and  the  cutting. 
Having  learned  this  one  by  heart,  I  went  about  looking 
for  anything  more  in  the  shape  of  sepulchral  flora  that 
might  interest  or  amuse  my  crippled  darling ;  nor  had 
I  searched  long  before  I  found  one,  the  sole  but  trium- 
phant recommendation  of  which  was  the  thorough 
**  puzzle -headedness"  of  its  construction.  1  quite 
reckoned  on  seeing  Connie  trying  to  make  it  out 
looking  as  bewildered  over  its  excellent  grammar  as  the 
poet  of  the  other  ought  to  have  looked  over  his  rhymes, 
ere  he  gave  in  to  the  use  of  the  nominative  after  i 
preposition. 

**  If  you  could  view  the  heavenly  shore, 
Where  heart's  content  you  hope  to  find, 
Vou  would  not  murmur  were  you  gone  befor^ 
But  grieve  that  you  are  left  beiiind.'* 


CHAPTER   XVI. 
Connie's  watch-tower. 

S  I  walked  home,  the  rush  of  the  rising  tide 
was  in  my  ears.  To  my  fancy,  the  ocean 
awaking  from  a  swoon  in  which  its  life  had 
ebbed  to  its  heart,  was  sending  that  Hfe 
abroad  to  its  extremities,  and  waves  breaking  in  white 
were  the  beats  of  its  reviving  pulse,  the  flashes  of  return- 
ing light.  But  so  gentle  was  its  motion,  and  so  lovely 
its  hue,  that  I  could  not  help  contrasting  it  with  its  reflex 
in  the  mind  of  her  who  took  refuge  from  the  tumult  of 
its  noises  in  the  hollow  of  the  old  church.  To  her,  let 
it  look  as  blue  as  the  sky,  as  peaceful  and  as  moveless, 
it  was  a  wild,  reckless,  false,  devouring  creature,  a  prey 
to  its  own  moods,  and  to  that  of  the  blind  winds 
which,  careless  of  consequences,  urged  it  to  raving  fury. 
Only,  while  the  sea  took  this  form  to  her  imagination, 
ihe  believed  in  that  which  held  the  sea,  and  knew  thalf 


CONNIE'S    WATCH-TOWER.  189 

when  it  pleased  God  to  part  his  confining  fingers,  there 
would  be  no  more  sea. 

When  I  reached  home,  I  went  straight  to  Connie's 
room.  Now,  the  house  was  one  of  a  class  to  every 
individual  of  which,  whatever  be  its  style  or  shape,  I 
instantly  become  attached  almost  as  if  it  possessed  a 
measure  of  the  life  which  it  has  sheltered.  This  class  of 
human  dwellings  consists  of  the  houses  that  have  groun. 
They  have  not  been  built  after  a  straight-up-and-down 
model  of  uninteresting  convenience  or  money-loving 
pinchedness.  They  must  have  had  some  plan,  goodj 
bad,  or  indifferent,  as  the  case  may  be,  at  first,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  that  plan  they  have  left  far  behind,  having 
grown  with  the  necessities  or  ambitions  of  succeeding 
possessors,  until  the  fact  that  they  have  a  history  is  as 
plainly  written  on  their  aspect  as  on  that  of  any  son  or 
daughter  of  Adam.  These  are  the  houses  which  the 
fairies  used  to  haunt,  and  if  there  is  any  truth  in  ghost- 
stories,  the  houses  which  ghosts  will  yet  haunt ;  and 
hence  perhaps  the  sense  of  soothing  comfort  which  per- 
vades us  when  we  cross  their  thresholds.  You  do  not 
know,  the  moment  you  have  cast  a  glance  about  the  hall, 
where  the  dining-room,  drawing-room,  and  best  bed- 
room are.  You  have  got  it  all  to  find  out,  just  as  the 
character  of  a  man;  and  thus  had  I  to  find  out  this  house 
of  my  friend  Shepherd.  It  had  formerly  been  a  kind  of 
manor-house,  though  altogether  unlike  any  other  manor- 
house  I  ever  saw ;  for  after  exercising  all  my  construc- 
tive ingenuity  reversed  in  pulling  it  to  pieces  in  my  mind, 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  tlie  germ-cell  of  it  was  a 


190  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

cottage  of  the  simplest  sort,  which  had  grown  by  the 
addition  of  other  cells,  till  it  had  reached  the  develop- 
ment in  which  we  found  it. 

I  have  said  that  the  dining-room  was  almost  on  the 
level  of  the  shore.  Certainly  some  of  the  flat  stones 
that  coped  the  low  wall  in  front  of  it  were  thrown  into  the 
garden  before  the  next  winter  by  the  waves.  But  Connie's 
room  looked  out  on  a  little  flower  garden  almost  on  the 
downs,  only  sheltered  a  little  by  the  rise  of  a  short  grassy 
slope  above  it.  This,  however,  left  the  prospect  from 
her  window  down  the  bay  and  out  to  sea,  almost  open. 
To  reach  this  room  I  had  now  to  go  up  but  one  simple  cot- 
tage stair ;  for  the  door  of  the  house  entered  on  the  first 
floor — that  is,  as  regards  the  building,  midway  between 
heaven  and  earth.  It  had  a  large  bay  window ;  and  in 
this  window  Connie  was  lying  on  her  couch,  with  the 
lower  sash  wide  open,  through  which  the  breeze  entered, 
smelling  of  sea-weed  tempered  with  sweet  grasses  and 
the  wall-flowers  and  stocks  that  were  in  the  little  plot 
under  it.  I  thought  I  could  see  an  improvement  in  her 
already.     Certainly  she  looked  very  happy. 

"  Oh,  papa  ! "  she  said,  "  isn't  it  delightful  T' 

**  What  is,  my  dear  ? " 

"Oh,  everything.  The  wind,  and  the  sky,  and  the 
sea,  and  the  smell  of  the  flowers.  Do  look  at  that  sea.- 
bird.  His  wings  are  like  the  barb  of  a  terrible  arrow. 
How  he  goes  undulating,  neck  and  body,  up  and  down 
as  he  flies.  I  never  felt  before  that  a  bird  moves  hii 
wings.  It  always  looked  as  if  the  wings  flew  with  tho 
bird.     But  I  see  the  effort  in  hinu* 


CONNIES    WATCH-TOWER.  19! 

"  An  easy  efifort,  though,  I  should  certainly  think." 

"  No  doubt.  But  I  see  that  he  chooses  and  means  to 
fly,  and  so  does  it.  It  makes  one  almost  reconciled  to 
the  idea  of  wings.     Do  angels  really  have  wings,  papa  ?** 

"  It  is  generally  so  represented,  I  think,  in  the  Bible, 
But  whether  it  is  meant  as  a  natural  fact  about  them,  is 
more  than  I  take  upon  me  to  decide.  For  one  thing,  I 
siiould  have  to  examine  whether  in  simple  narrative 
they  are  ever  represented  with  them,  as,  I  think,  in 
records  of  visions  they  are  never  represented  without 
them.  But  wings  are  very  beautiful  things,  and  I  do  not 
exactly  see  why  you  should  need  reconciling  to  them." 

Connie  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  like  the  notion  of  them  growing  out  at  my 
shoulder-blades  And  how  ever  would  you  get  on  youi 
clothes  ?  If  you  put  them  over  your  wings,  they  would 
be  of  no  use,  and  would,  besides,  make  you  hump- 
backed ;  and  if  you  did  not,  everything  would  have  to 
be  buttoned  round  the  roots  of  them.  You  could  not 
do  it  yourself,  and  even  on  Wynnie  I  don't  think  I  could 
bear  to  touch  the  things — I  don't  mean  the  feathers,  but 
tile  skinny,  folding-up  bits  of  them." 

I  laughed  at  her  fastidious  fancy. 

*"  You  want  to  fly,  I  suppose?"  I  said. 

*'  Oh,  yes ;  I  should'like  that." 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  have  wings  ?** 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  mind  the  wings  exactly ;  but  how 
ever  would  one  be  able  to  keep  them  nice?" 

*'  There  you  go ;  starting  from  one  thing  to  another, 
like  a  real  bird  already.     \Vhen  you  can't  answer  one 


192  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

thing,  off  to  another,  and,  from  your  nev7  perch  on  th€ 
hawthorn,  talk  as  if  you  were  still  on  the  topmost  branch 
of  the  lilac!" 

"  Oh  yes,  papa !  That's  what  I  Ve  heard  you  say  to 
mamma  twenty  times.** 

"  And  did  I  ever  say  to  your  mamma  anything  but 
the  truth  1  of  to  you  either,  you  puss?" 

I  had  not  yet  discovered  that  when  I  used  this  epithet 
to  my  Connie,  she  always  thought  she  had  gone  too  far. 
She  looked  troubled.     I  hastened  to  relieve  her. 

"  When  women  have  wings,'*  I  said,  "  their  logic  will 
be  good.*' 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out,  papa  ?**  she  asked,  a 
little  re-assured. 

"  Because  then  every  shadow  of  feeling  that  turns 
your  speech  aside  from  the  straight  course  will  be  re- 
cognized in  that  speech;  the  whole  utterance  will  be 
instinct  not  only  with  the  meaning  of  what  you  are 
thinking,  but  with  the  reflex  of  the  forces  in  you  that 
make  the  utterance  take  this  or  that  shape ;  just  as  to  a 
perfect  palate,  the  source  and  course  of  a  stream  would 
be  revealed  in  every  draught  of  its  water.^* 

"  I  have  just  a  glimmering  of  your  meaning,  papa. 
Would  you  like  to  have  wings  ?" 

"  I  should  like  lo  fly  like  a  bird,  to  swim  like  a  fish, 
to  gallop  like  a  horse,  to  creep  like  a  serpent;  but  I 
suspect  the  good  of  all  these  is  to  be  got  without  doing 
any  of  them." 

''  I  know  what  you  mean  now  but  I  can't  put  it  is 
words.** 


CONNIE'S    WATCH-TOWER.  I93 


**I  mean  by  a  perfect  sympathy  with  the  creatures 
that  do  these  things :  what  it  may  please  God  to  give  to 
ourselves,  we  can  quite  comfortably  leave  to  him.  A 
higher  stratum  of  the  same  kind  is  the  need  we  feel  of 
knowing  our  fellow-creatures  through  and  through,  of 
walking  into  and  out  of  their  worlds  as  if  we  were,  be- 
cause we  are,  perfectly  at  home  in  them.  But  I  am 
talking  wliat  the  people  who  do  not  understand  such 
things  lump  all  together  as  mysticism,  which  is  their 
name  for  a  kind  of  spiritual  ashpit,  whither  they  consign 
dust  and  stones,  never  asking  whether  they  may  not  be 
gold-dust  and  rubies,  ail  in  a  heap.  You  had  better 
begin  to  think  about  getting  out,  Connie." 

"Think  about  it,  papa!  I  have  been  thinking  about 
it  ever  since  daylight." 

**  I  will  go  and  sec  what,  your  mother  is  doing  then, 
and  if  she  is  ready  to  go  out  with  us." 

In  a  few  moments  all  was  arranged.  Without  killing 
more  than  a  snail  or  two,  which  we  could  not  take  time 
to  beware  of,  Walter  and  I — finding  that  the  window 
did  not  open  down  to  the  ground  in  French  fashion,  for 
which  there  were  two  good  reasons,  one  the  fierceness 
of  the  winds  in  winter,  the  other,  the  fact  that  the  means 
of  egress  were  elsewise  provided — lifted  the  sofa,  Connie 
and  all,  out  over  the  window-sill,  and  then  there  was 
only  a  little  door  in  the  garden-wall  to  get  her  through 
before  we  found  ourselves  upon  the  down.  I  think  the 
ascent  of  this  hill  was  the  first  experience  I  had — a  little 
to  my  humiliation,  nothing  to  my  sorrow — that  I  was 

descending  another  hilL     I  had  to  set  down  the  precioui 

Iff 


194  THE    SE\BOARD    PARISH. 


burden  rather  oftener  before  we  reached  the  brow  of 
the  cliffs  than  would  have  been  necessary  ten  years  be- 
fore. l>ut  this  was  all  right,  and  the  newly-discovered 
weakness  then  was  strength  to  the  power  which  carries 
me  about  on  my  two  legs  now.  It  is  all  right  still.  I 
shall  be  stronger  by  and  by. 

We  carried  her  high  enough  for  her  to  see  the  brilliant 
waters  lying  many  feet  below  her,  with  the  sea-birds  of 
which  we  had  ta'ked  winging  their  undulating  way  be- 
tween heaven  and  ocean.  It  is  when  first  you  have  a 
chance  of  looking  a  bird  in  the  face  on  the  wing  that  you 
know  what  the  marvel  of  flight  is.  There  it  hangs  or 
rests,  which  you  please,  borne  up,  as  far  as  eye  or  any 
of  the  senses  can  witness,  by  its  own  will  alone.  This 
Connie,  quicker  than  I  in  her  observation  of  nature,  had 
already  observed.  Seated  on  the  warm  grass  by  her  side, 
while  neither  talked,  but  both  regarded  the  blue  spaces, 
I  saw  one  of  those  barb-winged  birds  rest  over  my  head, 
regarding  me  from  above,  as  if  doubtful  whether  I  did 
not  afford  some  claim  to  his  theory  of  treasure-trove.  I 
knew  at  once  that  what  Connie  had  been  saying  to  me 
just  before  was  true. 

She  lay  silent  a  long  time.  I  too  was  silent  At 
length  I  spoke. 

**  Are  you  longing  to  be  running  about  amongst  the 
rocks,  my  Connie  1" 

*'  No,  papa ;  not  a  bit.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I 
don't  think  I  ever  wished  much  for  anything  I  knew  I 
could  not  have.  I  am  enjoying  everything  more  than  ' 
can  tell  you,     I  wish  Wynnie  were  as  happy  as  I  am." 


CONNIES    WATCH-TOWER.  IQJ 


•*Why?     Do  you  think  she  's  not  happy,  ray  dear?" 

"  That  doesn't  want  any  thinking,  papa.  You  can  see 
that' 

"I  am  afraid  you're  right,  Connie.  What  do  you 
think  is  the  cause  of  it  ?" 

" I  think  it  is  because  she  cant  wait.  She 's  always 
going  out  to  meet  things  ;  and  then  when  they  're  not 
there  waiting  for  her,  she  thinks  they  're  nowhere.  But 
1  always  think  her  way  is  finer  than  mine.  If  everybody 
were  like  me,  there  wouldn't  be  much  done  in  the  world, 
would  there,  papal" 

"  At  all  events,  my  dear,  your  way  is  wise  for  you,  and 
1  am  glad  you  do  not  judge  your  sister." 

"  Judge  Wynnie,  papa !  That  would  be  cool  impu- 
dence. She 's  worth  ten  of  me.  Don't  you  think,  papa," 
she  added,  after  a  pause,  *'  that  if  Mary  had  said  the 
smallest  word  against  Martha,  as  Martha  did  against 
Mary,  Jesus  would  have  had  a  word  to  say  on  Martha's 
side  next  1 " 

*'  Indeed  I  do,  my  dear.  And  I  think  that  Mary  did 
not  sit  very  long  without  asking  Jesus  if  she  mightn't  go 
and  help  her  sister.  There  is  but  one  thing  needful — 
that  is,  the  will  of  God  ;  and  when  people  love  that  above 
everythmg,  they  soon  come  to  see  that  to  everything 
else  there  are  two  sides,  and  that  only  the  will  of  God 
gives  fair  play,  as  we  call  it,  to  both  of  them." 

Another  silence  followed.     Then  Connie  spoke. 

**  Is  it  not  strange,  papa,  that  the  only  thing  here  that 
nakes  me  want  to  get  up  to  look,  is  nothing  of  all  the 
i:and  things  round  about  me  ?     1  am  just  lying  like  tha 


196  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

convex  mirror  in  the  school-room  at  home,  letting  them 
all  paint  themselves  in  me." 

"  What  is  it  then  that  makes  you  wish  to  get  i;p  and 
go  and  see  V*  1  asked  with  real  curiosity. 

"  Do  you  see  down  there — away  across  the  bay — 
amongst  the  rocks  at  the  other  side,  a  man  sitting 
sketching  V* 

I  looked  for  sometime  before  I  could  discover  him. 

"  Your  sight  is  good,  Connie  :  I  see  the  man,  but  I 
could  not  tell  what  he  was  doing." 

"  Don't  you  see  him  lifting  his  head  every  now  and 
then  for  a  moment,  and  then  keeping  it  down  for  a  longer 
while?" 

"  I  cannot  distinguish  that  But  then  I  am  short- 
sighted rather,  you  know." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  see  so  many  little  things  that 
nobody  else  seems  to  notice,  then,  papa." 

"  That  is  because  I  have  trained  myself  to  observe. 
The  degree  of  power  in  the  sight  is  of  less  consequence 
than  the  habit  of  seeing.  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me 
what  it  is  that  makes  you  desirous  of  getting  up." 

"  I  want  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  and  see  what  he 
is  doing.  Is  it  not  strange  that  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
plenty  of  beautifulness,  I  should  want  to  rise  to  look  at 
A  few  lines  and  scratches,  or  smears  of  colour,  upon  a  bit 
of  paper  r* 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  don't  think  it  is  strange.  There  a 
new  element  of  interest  is  introduced — the  human.  No 
doubt  there  is  deep  humanity  in  all  this  around  us. 
No  doubt  all  the  world,  in  all  its  moods,  is  human,  as 


CONNIE'S    WATCH-TOWER.  I97 

those  for  whose  abode  and  instruction  it  was  made.  No 
doubt,  it  would  be  void  of  both  beauty  and  significance 
to  our  eyes,  were  it  not  that  it  is  one  crowd  of  picture? 
of  the  human  mind,  blended  in  one  living  fluctuating 
whole.  But  these  meanings  are  there  in  solution  as  it 
were.  The  individual  is  a  centre  of  crystallization  to 
this  solution.  Around  him  meanings  gather,  are  sepa- 
rated from  other  meanings ;  and  if  he  be  an  artist,  by 
which  I  mean  true  painter,  true  poet,  or  true  musician, 
as  the  case  may  be,  he  so  isolates  and  re-presents  them, 
that  we  see  them — not  what  nature  shows  to  us,  but 
what  nature  has  shown -to  him,  determined  by  his  nature 
and  choice.  With  it  is  mingled  therefore  so  much  of 
his  own  individuality,  manifested  both  in  this  choice 
and  certain  modifications  determined  by  his  way  of 
working,  that  you  have  not  only  a  representation  of 
an  aspect  of  nature,  as  far  as  that  may  be  with  limited 
powers  and  materials,  but  a  revelation  of  the  man's  own 
mind  and  nature.  Consequently  there  is  a  human  in- 
terest in  every  true  attempt  to  reproduce  nature,  an 
interest  of  individuality  which  does  not  belong  to  nature 
herself,  who  is  for  all  and  every  man.  You  have  just 
been  saying  that  you  were  lying  there  like  a  convex 
mirror  reflecting  all  nature  around  you.  Every  man  is 
such  a  convex  mirror ;  and  his  drawing,  if  he  can  make 
one,  is  an  attempt  to  show  what  is  in  this  little  mirror  of 
his,  kindled  there  by  the  grand  world  outside.  And  the 
human  mirrors  being  all  differently  formed,  vary  infinitely 
in  what  they  would  thus  represent  of  the  same  scene. 
I  have  been  greatly  interested  in   looking   alternattli 


198  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

over  the  shoulders  of  two  artists,  both  sketching  in 
colour  the  same,  absolutely  the  same  scene,  both  trying 
to  represent  it  with  all  the  truth  in  their  power.  Plow 
different,  notwithstanding,  the  two  representations  came 
out!" 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,  papa.  But  look  a  little 
farther  off.  Don't  you  see  over  the  top  of  another  rock 
a  lady's  bonnet  ?  I  do  believe  that 's  Wynnie.  I  know 
she  took  her  box  of  water-colours  out  with  her  this  mom 
ing,  just  before  you  came  home.     Dora  went  with  her." 

"  Can't  you  tell  by  her  ribbons,  Connie  ?  You  seem 
sharp-sighted  enough  to  see  her-  face  if  she  would  show 
it.  I  don't  even  see  the  bonnet.  If  I  were  like  some 
people  I  know,  I  should  feel  justified  in  denying  its 
presence,  attributing  the  whole  to  your  fancy,  and  re 
fusing  anything  to  superiority  of  vision." 

"  That  wouldn't  be  like  you,  papa." 

"  I  hope  not ;  for  I  have  no  fancy  for  being  shut  up 
in  my  own  blindness,  when  other  people  offer  me  their 
eyes  to  eke  out  the  defects  of  my  own  with.  But  here 
comes  mamma  at  last." 

Connie's  face  brightened  as  if  she  had  not  seen  her 
mother  for  a  fortnight.  My  Ethelwyn  always  brought 
the  home-gladness  that  her  name  signified  with  her. 
She  was  a  centre  of  radiating  peace. 

** Mamma,  don't  you  think  that's  Wynnie's  bonnet 
over  that  black  rock  there,  just  beyond  where  you  see 
that  man  drawing  1 " 

"  You  absurd  child !  How  should  I  know  Wynnie'i 
bonnet  at  this  distance  1  * 


CONNIE  S    WATCH-TOWER.  I99 

*Can*t  you  see  the  little  white  feather  you  gave  her 
out  of  your  wardrobe  jus*-  before  we  left  1  She  put  it  in 
this  morning  before  she  wei.t  out." 

"  I  think  I  do  see  something  white.  But  I  want  you 
to  look  out  there,  towards  what  they  call  the  Chapel 
Rock,  at  the  other  end  of  that  long  mound  they  call  the 
breakwater.  You  will  soon  see  a  boat  appear  full  ol 
the  coastguard.  I  saw  them  going  on  board  just  as  I 
left  the  house  to  come  up  to  you.  Their  officer  came 
down  with  his  sword,  and  each  of  the  men  had  a  cut- 
las.     I  wonder  what  it  can  mean." 

We  looked.  But  before  the  boat  made  its  appearance, 
Connie  cried  out — 

"  Look  there  !  What  a  big  boat  that  is  rowing  for  the 
land,  away  northwards  there ! " 

I  turned  my  eyes  in  the  direction  she  indicated,  and 
saw  a  long  boat  with  some  half-dozen  oars,  full  of  men, 
rowing  hard,  apparently  for  some  spot  on  the  shore  at 
a  considerable  distance  to  the  north  of  our  bay. 

"Ah  !"  I  said,  "that  boat  has  something  to  do  with 
the  coastguard  and  their  cutlases.  You  '11  see  that,  as 
soon  as  they  get  out  of  the  bay,  they  will  row  in  the 
same  dirpction.** 

So  it  ».  ^s.  Our  boat  appeared  presently  from  under 
the  concealment  of  the  heights  on  which  we  were,  and 
made  at  full  speed  after  the  other  boat 

" Surely  they  can't  be  smugglers,"  I  said.  "I  thought 
all  that  was  over  and  done  with." 

In  the  course  of  another  twenty  minutes,  during  which 
wc  watched  their  progress,  both  boats  had  disappeared 


aoo  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

behind  the  headland  to  the  northward.  Then,  thinking 
Connie  had  had  nearly  enough  of  the  sea  air  for  her  first 
experience  of  its  influences,  I  went  and  fetched  Walter, 
and  we  carried  her  back  as  we  had  brought  her.  She 
had  not  been  in  the  shadow  of  her  own  room  for  fi\c 
minutes  before  she  was  fast  asleep. 

It  was  now  nearly  time  for  our  early  dinner.  We 
always  dined  early  when  we  could,  that  we  might  eat 
along  with  our  children.  We  were  both  convinced  that 
the  only  way  to  make  them  behave  like  ladies  and  gentle- 
men was  to  have  them  always  with  us  at  meals.  We 
had  seen  very  unpleasant  results  in  the  children  of  those 
who  allowed  them  to  dine  with  no  other  supervision 
than  the  nursery  afforded  :  they  were  a  constant  anxiety 
and  occasional  horror  to  those  whom  they  visited — 
snatching  like  monkeys  and  devouring  like  jackals,  as 
selfishly  as  if  they  were  mere  animals. 

**  Oh  I  we  've  seen  such  a  nice  gentleman  I  **  said 
Dora,  becoming  lively  under  the  influence  of  her 
soup. 

•'  Have  you,  Dora  1     Where  ?  ** 
**  Sitting  on  the  rocks,  taking  a  portrait  of  the  sea." 
**  What  makes  you  say  he  was  a  nice  gentleman?" 
**  He  had  such  beautiful  boots  ! "  answered  Dora,  at 
l^hich  there  was  a  great  laugh  about  the  table. 

"  Oh  !  we  must  run  and  tell  Connie  that,"  said 
Harry.     "  It  will  make  her  laugh." 

•*  What  will  you  tell  Connie,  then,  Harry  ? " 
•  Oh,  what  was  it,  Charlie  ?  I  Ve  forgotten." 
Another  laugh  followed  at  Harry's  expense  now,  iii<| 


Connie's  watch-tower.  20s 


we  were  all  very  merry,  when  Dora,  who  sat  opposite  to 
the  window,  called  out  clapping  her  hands — 

"  There 's  Niceboots  again  I  There  's  Niceboots 
again  !  *' 

The  same  moment  the  head  of  a  young  man  appeared 
over  the  wall  that  separated  the  garden  from  the  little 
beach  that  lay  by  the  entrance  of  the  canal.  I  saw  at 
once  that  he  must  be  more  than  ordinarily  tall  to  show 
his  face,  for  he  was  not  close  to  the  wall.  It  was  a  dark 
countenance,  with  a  long  beard,  which  few  at  that  time 
v/ore,  though  now  it  is  getting  not  uncommon,  even  in 
my  own  profession — a  noble,  handsome  face,  a  little 
isad,  with  downbent  eyes,  which,  released  from  their  more 
immediate  duty  towards  nature,  had  now  bent  them- 
selves upon  the  earth. 

"  Counting  the  aewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought.'* 

**  I  suppose  he 's  contemplating  his  boots,"  said 
Wynnie,  with  apparent  maliciousness. 

"  That 's  too  bad  of  you,  Wynnie,"  I  said,  and  the 
child  blushed. 

"  1  didn  *t  mean  anything,  papa.  It  was  only  follow- 
mg  up  Dora's  wise  discrimination,"  said  Wynnie. 

"  He  is  a  fine-looking  fellow,"  said  I,  "and  ought,  with 
that  face  and  head,  to  be  able  to  paint  good  pictures." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  what  he  has  done,"  said  Wynnie; 
"  for,  by  the  way  we  were  sitting,  I  should  think  we  were 
attemptmg  the  same  thing.'* 

•*And  what  was  that  then,  Wynnie  ?*'  I  asked. 

•*  A  rock,"  she  answered,  "  that  you  could  not  see  from 


a02  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


where  you  were  sitting.  I  saw  you  on  the  top  of  the 
diff." 

"Coniue  said  it  was  you,  by  your  bonnet  She,  too, 
was  wishing  she  could  look  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
artist  at  work  beside  you." 

"  Not  beside  me.  There  were  yards  and  yards  of  solid 
rock  between  us." 

"  Space,  you  see,  in  removing  things  from  the  beholder, 
seems  always  to  bring  them  nearer  to  each  other,  and 
the  most  differing  things  are  classed  under  one  name  by 
the  man  who  knows  nothing  about  them.  But  what  sort 
of  a  rock  was  it  you  were  trying  to  draw  1 " 

"  A  strange-looking,  conical  rock,  that  stands  alone  in 
front  of  one  of  the  ridges  that  project  from  the  shore 
into  the  water.  Three  sea-birds,  with  long  white 
wings,  were  flying  about  it,  and  the  little  waves  of  the 
rising  tide  were  beating  themselves  against  it  and  break- 
ing in  white  plashes.  So  the  rock  stood  between  the 
blue  and  white  below  and  the  blue  and  white  above  ;  for, 
though  there  were  no  clouds,  the  birds  gave  the  touches 
of  white  to  the  upper  sea." 

"Now,  Dora,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  know  if  you  are  old 
enough  to  understand  me ;  but  sometimes  little  people 
are  long  in  understanding  just  because  the  older  people 
think  they  can't,  and  don't  try  them.  Do  you  see,  Dora, 
why  1  want  you  to  learn  to  draw  1  Look  how  Wynnie 
sees  things.  That  is,  in  a  great  measure^  because 
she  draws  things,  and  has,  by  that,  learned  to  watch 
in  order  to  find  out.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  your 
eyes  oj»eiu" 


Connie's  watch-tower.  203 

Dora's  eyes  were  large,  and  she  opened  them  to  theif 
full  width,  as  if  she  would  take  in  the  universe  at  their 
little  doors.  Whether  that  indicated  that  she  did  not  in 
the  least  understand  what  I  had  been  saying,  or  that  she 
was  in  sympathy  with  it,  I  cannot  tell. 

"  Now  let  us  go  up  to  Connie,  and  tell  her  about  the 
rock  and  everything  else  you  have  seen  since  you  went 
out.  We  are  all  her  messengers,  sent  out  to  discover 
things,  and  bring  back  news  of  them." 

After  a  little  talk  with  Connie,  I  retired  to  the  study, 
which  was  on  the  same  floor  as  her  room,  completing, 
indeed,  the  whole  of  that  part  of  the  house,  which,  seen 
from  without,  looked  like  a  separate  building ;  for  it  had 
a  roof  of  its  own,  and  stood  higher  up  the  rock  than  the 
rest  of  the  dwelling.  Here  I  began  to  glance  over  his 
books.  To  have  the  run  of  another  man's  library,  especially 
if  it  has  all  been  gathered  by  himself,  is  like  having  a  pass- 
key into  the  chambers  of  his  thought  Only,  one  must 
be  wary,  when  he  opens  them,  what  marks  on  the  books 
he  takes  for  those  of  the  present  owner.  A  mistake  here 
would  breed  considerable  confusion  and  falsehood  in 
any  judgment  formed  from  the  library.  I  found,  how- 
ever, one  thing  plain  enough,  that  Shepherd  .had  kept 
up  that  love  for  an  older  English  literature  which  had 
been  one  of  the  cords  to  draw  us  towards  each  other 
when  we  were  students  together.  There  had  been  one 
point  on  which  we  especially  agreed — that  a  true  know- 
ledge of  the  present,  in  literature,  as  in  everything  else, 
could  only  be  founded  upon  a  knowledge  of  what  had 
gone  before ;  therefore,  that  any  judgment,  in  regard  to 


«04  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  literature  of  the  present  day,  was  of  no  value,  which 
was  not  guided  and  influenced  by  a  real  acquaintance 
with  the  best  of  what  had  gone  before,  being  liable  to  be 
dazzled  and  misled  by  novelty  of  form  and  other  quali- 
ties which,  whatever  might  be  the  real  worth  of  the  sub- 
stance, were,  in  themselves,  purely  ephemeral.  I  had 
taken  down  a  last  century  edition  of  the  poems  of  the 
brothers  Fletcher,  and,  having  begun  to  read  a  lovely 
passage  in  "  Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph,"  had  gone 
into  what  I  can  only  call  an  intellectual  rage  at  the 
impudence  of  the  editor,  who  had  altered  innumerable 
words  and  phrases  to  suit  the  degenerate  taste  of  his  own 
time, — when  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  Charlie 
entered,  breathless  with  eagerness. 

**  There  *s  the  boat  with  the  men  with  the  swords  in  it, 
dnd  another  boat  behind  them,  twice  as  big." 

I  hurried  out  upon  the  road,  and  there,  close  under 
our  windows,  were  the  two  boats  we  had  seen  in  the 
morning,  landing  their  crews  on  the  little  beach.  The 
second  boat  was  full  of  weather-beaten  men,  in  all  kinds 
of  attire,  some  in  blue  jerseys,  some  in  red  shirts,  some 
in  ragged  coats.  One  man,  who  looked  their  superior 
was  dressed  in  blue  from  head  to  foot 

*'  What 's  the  matter  ? "  I  asked  the  officer  of  the  coast- 
guard, a  sedate,  thoughtful-looking  man. 

"  Vessel  foundered,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  Sprung  a 
leak  on  Sunday  morning.  She  was  laden  with  iron,  and 
in  a  heavy  ground  swell  it  shifted  and  knocked  a  hole  in 
her.  The  poor  fellows  are  worn  out  with  the  pump  and 
■owing,  upon  little  or  nothing  to  eat** 


Connie's  watch-tower.  205 

They  were  trooping  past  us  by  this  time,  looking  rather 
dismal,  though  not  by  any  means  abject 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  now  1 " 

"They'll  be  taken  in  by  the  people.  We  '11  get  up  a 
little  subscription  for  ihem,  but  they  all  belong  to  the 
society  the  sailors  have  for  sending  the  shipwrecked  to 
their  homes,  or  where  they  want  to  go." 

"  Well,  here 's  something  to  help,"  I  said. 

**  Tliank  you,  sir.     They  *11  be  very  glad  of  it" 

"  And  if  there  *s  anything  wanted  that  I  can  do  for 
them,  you  must  let  me  know." 

"  I  will,  sir.  But  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any 
occasion  to  trouble  you.  You  are  our  new  clergyman, 
I  believe." 

"  Not  exactly  that  Only  for  a  little  while,  till  my 
friend  Mr  Shepherd  is  able  to  come  back  to  you/* 

"We  don't  want  to  lose  Mr  Shepherd,  sir.  He's 
what  they  call  high  in  these  parts,  but  he  's  a  great 
favourite  with  all  the  poor  people,  because  you  see  he 
understands  them  as  if  he  was  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood  with  themselves — as,  for  that  matter,  1  suppose 
we  all  are." 

"  If  we  weren't  there  would  be  nothing  to  say  at  all. 
Will  any  of  these  men  be  at  church  to-morrow,  do  you 
suppose  1  I  am  afraid  sailors  are  not  much  in  the  way 
of  going  to  church  I " 

"  I  am  afraid  not  -  You  see  they  are  all  anxious  t(? 
get  home.  Most  likely  they  '11  be  all  travelling  to-mor- 
row. It 's  a  pity.  It  would  be  a  good  chance  for  saying 
something  to  them  that  the)  might  think  of  again.     But 


206  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  often  think  that,  perhaps — it's  only  my  own  fancy, 
and  I  don't  set  it  up  for  anything — that  sailors  won't  be 
judged  exactly  like  other  people.  They're  so  knocked 
about,  you  see,  sir." 

"  Of  course  not.  Nobody  will  be  judged  like  any 
other  body.  To  his  own  Master,  who  knows  all  about 
him,  every  man  stands  or  falls.  Depend  upon  it,  God 
likes  fair-play,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  far  better  than 
any  sailor  of  them  all.  But  that 's  not  exactly  the  ques- 
tion. It  seems  to  me  the  question  is  this :  shall  we,  who 
know  what  a  blessed  thing  life  is  because  we  know  what 
God  is  like,  who  can  trust  in  him  with  all  our  hearts 
because  he  is  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the 
friend  of  sinners,  shall  we  not  try  all  we  can  to  let  them, 
too,  know  the  blessedness  of  trusting  in  their  Father  in 
heaven?  If  we  could  only  get  them  to  say  the  Lord's 
prayer,  meaning  it,  think  what  that  would  be  !  Look  here  ! 
This  can't  be  called  bribery,  for  they  are  in  want  of  it, 
and  it  will  show  them  I  am  friendly.  Here 's  another  sove- 
reign. Give  them  my  compliments,  and  say  that  if  any 
of  them  happen  to  be  in  Kilkhaven  to  morrow,  I  shall 
be  quite  pleased  to  welcome  them  to  church.  Tell  them 
I  will  give  them  of  my  best  there  if  they  will  come. 
Make  the  invitation  merrily,  you  know.  No  long  faces 
and  solemn  speech.  I  will  give  them  the  solemn  speech 
when  they  come  to  church.  But  even  there  I  hope  God 
will  keep  the  long  face  far  from  me.  That  is  fittest  for 
fear  and  suffering.  And  the  house  of  God  is  the  casket 
that  holds  the  antidote  against  all  fear  and  most  suffer- 
ing.    But  I  am  preaching  my  sermon  on  Saturday  m« 


CONNIE'S    WATCH-TOWER.  20^ 

Stead  of  Sunday,  and  keeping  you  from  your  ministration 
to  the  poor  fellows.     Good-bye." 

"  I  will  give  them  your  message  as  near  as  I  can,"  he 
said,  and  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 

This  was  the  first  experience  we  had  of  the  mignt  afiJ 
battle  of  the  ocean.  To  our  eyes  it  lay  quiet  as  a  baby 
asleep.  On  that  Sunday  morning  there  had  been  no 
commotion  here.  Yet  now  at  last,  on  the  Saturday 
morning,  home  come  the  conquered  and  spoiled  of  the 
sea.  As  if  with  a  mock  she  takes  all  they  have,  and 
flings  them  on  shore  again,  with  her  weeds,  and  her 
shells,  and  her  sand.  Before  the  winter  was  over  we 
had  learned — how  much  more  of  that  awful  power  that 
surrounds  the  habitable  earth !  By  slow  degrees  the 
sense  of  its  might  grew  upon  us,  first  by  the  vision  of  its 
many  aspects  and  moods,  and  then  by  the  more  awful 
things  that  followed ;  for  there  are  few  coasts  upon  which 
the  sea  rages  so  wildly  as  upon  this,  the  whole  force  of 
the  Atlantic  breaking  upon  it.  Even  when  there  is  no 
storm  within  perhaps  hundreds  of  miles,  when  all  is  still 
as  a  church  on  land,  the  storm  which  raves  somewhere 
out  upon  the  vast  waste,  will  drive  the  waves  in  upon 
the  shore  with  such  fury  that  not  even  a  lifeboat  could 
make  its  way  through  the  yawning  hollows,  and  theif 
fierce,  shattered,  and  tumbling  crests. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

jN  the  hope  that  some  of  the  shipwrecked 
mariners  might  be  present  in  the  church  the 
next  day,  I  proceeded  to  consider  my  morn- 
ing's sermon  for  the  occasion.  There  was  no 
difficulty  in  taking  care  at  the  same  time  that  it  should 
be  suitable  to  the  congregation,  whether  those  sailors 
were  there  or  not.  I  turned  over  in  my  mind  several 
subjects.  I  thought,  for  instance  of  showing  them  how 
this  ocean  that,  lay  watchful  and  ready  all  about  our 
island,  all  about  the  earth,  was  but  a  visible  type  or 
symbol  of  two  other  oceans,  one  very  still,  the  other  very 
awful  and  fierce ;  in  fact,  that  three  oceans  surrounded 
us  ;  one  of  the  known  world,  one  of  the  unseen  world, 
that  is,  of  death  ;  one  of  the  spirit — the  devouring  ocean 
of  evil — and  might  I  not  have  added  yet  another,  en- 
compassing and  silencing  all  the  rest — that  of  truth! 
Tiie  visible  ocean  seemed  to  make  war  upon  the  land, 


MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      209 

and  the  dwellers  thereon.  Restrained  by  the  will  of 
God,  and  by  him  made  subject  more  and  more  to  the 
advancing  knowledge  of  those  who  were  created  to  rule 
over  it,  it  was  yet  like  a  half-tamed  beast,  ever  ready  to 
break  loose  and  devour  its  masters.  Of  course  this 
would  have  been  but  one  aspect  or  appearance  of  it — for 
it  was  in  truth  all  service ;  but  this  was  the  aspect  I  knew 
it  must  bear  to  those,  seafaring  themselves  or  not,  to 
whom  I  had  to-  speak.  Then  I  thought  I  might  show, 
that  its  power,  like  that  of  all  things  that  man  is  ready  to 
fear,  had  one  barrier  over  which  no  commotion,  no  might 
of  driving  wind,  could  carry  it,  beyond  which  its  loudest 
waves  were  dumb — the  barrier  of  death.  Hitherto  and 
no  further  could  its  power  reach.  It  could  kill  the  body. 
It  could  dash  in  pieces  the  last  little  cock-boat  to  which 
the  man  clung,  but  thus  it  swept  the  man  beyond  its 
own  region  into  the  second  sea  of  stillness,  which  we  call 
death,  out  upon  which  the  thoughts  of  those  that  are  left 
behind  can  follow  him  only  in  great  longings,  vague  con- 
jectures, and  mighty  faith.  Then  I  thought  I  could 
show  them  how,  raving  in  fear,  or  lying  still  in  calm 
deceit,  there  lay  about  the  life  of  a  man  a  far  more  fear- 
ftil  ocean  than  that  which  threatened  his  body ;  for  this 
would  cast,  could  it  but  get  hold  of  him,  both  body  and 
soul  into  hell — the  sea  of  evil,  of  vice,  of  sin,  of  wrong- 
doing— they  might  call  it  by  what  name  they  pleased. 
This  made  war  against  the  very  essence  of  life,  against 
God  who  is  the  truth,  against  love,  against  fairness, 
against  fatherhood,  motherhood,  sisterhood,  brotherhood, 
manhood,  womanhood,  against  tenderness  and  grace  and 


2IO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


beauty,  gathering  into  one  pulp  of  festering  death  all  that 
is  noble,  lovely,  worshipful  in  the  human  nature  made 
so  divine  that  the  one  fearless  man,  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  shared  it  with  us.  This,  I  thought  I  might  make 
them  understand,  was  the  only  terrible  sea,  the  only 
hopeless  ocean  from  whose  awful  shore  we  must  shrink 
and  flee,  the  end  of  every  voyage  upon  whose  bosom 
was  the  bottom  of  its  filthy  waters,  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  that  is  thought  or  spoken  in  the  light,  beyond  life 
itself,  but  for  the  hand  that  reaches  down  from  the  upper 
ocean  of  truth,  the  hand  of  the  Redeemer  of  men.  I 
thought,  I  say,  for  a  while,  that  I  could  make  this,  not 
definite,  but  very  real  to  them.  But  I  did  not  feel  quite 
confident  about  it.  Might  they  not  in  the  symbolism 
forget  the  thing  symbolized?  And  would  not  the  symbol 
itself  be  ready  to  fade  quite  from  their  memory,  or  to  re- 
turn only  in  the  vaguest  shadow?  And  with  the  thought 
I  perceived  a  far  more  excellent  way.  For  the  power  of 
the  truth  lies  of  course  in  its  revelation  to  the  mind,  and 
while  for  this  there  are  a  thousand  means,  none  are  so 
mighty  as  its  embodiment  in  human  beings  and  human 
life.  There  it  is  itself  alive  and  active.  And  amongst 
these,  what  embodiment  comes  near  to  that  in  him  who 
was  perfect  man  in  virtue  of  being  at  the  root  of  the 
secret  of  humanity,  in  virtue  of  being  the  eternal  Son  of 
God  ?  We  are  his  sons  in  time  :  he  is  his  Son  in 
eternity,  of  whose  sea  time  is  but  the  broken  sparkle. 
Th=;refore,  I  would  talk  to  them  about — but  I  will  treat 
my  reader  now  as  if  he  were  not  my  reader,  but  one  of 
my  congregation  on  that  bright  Sunday,  my  first  in  the 


KY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      211 

Seaboard  Parish,  with  the  sea  outside  the  church,  flashing 
iii  the  sunlight^ 

While  I  stood  at  the  lectern,  which  was  in  front  of 
the  altar-screen,  I  could  see  little  of  my  congregation, 
partly  from  my  being  on  a  level  with  them,  partly  from 
the  necessity  for  keeping  my  eyes  and  thoughts  upon 
that  which  I  read.  When,  however,  I  rose  from  prayer 
in  the  pulpit,  then  I  felt,  as  usual  with  me,  that  I  was 
personally  present  for  personal  influence  with  my  people, 
and  then  I  saw,  to  my  great  pleasure,  that  one  long 
bench  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  church  was  full  of  such 
sunburnt  men  as  could  not  be  mistaken  for  any  but 
mariners,  even  if  their  torn  and  worn  garments  had  not 
revealed  that  they  must  be  the  very  men  about  whom 
we  had  been  so  miv.h  interested.  Not  only  were  they 
behaving  with  perfe^  \  decorum,  but  their  rough  faces 
wore  an  aspect  of  so?tjnnity  which  I  do  not  suppose  was 
by  any  means  their  usual  aspect. 

I  gave  them  ro  text.  I  had  one  myself,  which  was 
the  necessary  thing.     Thv  y  should  have  it  by-and-bye. 

*'  Once  upon  a  time,"  I  said,  "  a  man  went  up  a 
mountain,  and  stayed  there  till  it  was  dark,  and  stayed 
on.  Now,  a  man  who  findt  himself  on  a  mountain  as 
the  sun  is  going  down,  espec^  illy  if  he  is  alone,  makes 
haste  to  get  down  before  it  is  >lark.  But  this  man  went 
up  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  and,  as  I  say,  con- 
tinued there  for  a  good  long  ,vhile  after  it  was  dark. 
You  will  want  to  know  why.  I  w  ill  tell  you.  He  wished 
to  be  alone.  He  hadn't  a  house  af  his  own.  He  never 
had  aJl  the  time  he  lived.     He  lidn't  even  a  loom  of 


ai2  THE    SEABOARD     PARIS}!. 

his  own  into  which  he  could  go,  and  bolt  the  door  of  it 
True,  he  h;ul  kind  friends,  who  gave  hthi  a  bed  :  but 
they  were  all  poor  people,  an'd  their  houses  were  small, 
and  very  likely  they  had  large  families,  and  he  could  not 
always  find  a  quiet  place  to  go  into.  And  I  daresay,  ii 
he  had  had  a  room,  he  would  have  been  a  little  troubled 
with  the  children  constantly  coming  to  find  him ;  for 
however  much  he  loved  them — and  no  man  was  ever  so 
fond  of  children  as  he  was — he  needed  to  be  left  quiet 
sometimes.  So,  upon  this  occasion,  he  went  up  the 
mountain  just  to  be  quiet.  He  had  been  all  day  with  a 
crowd  of  people,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  time  to  be  alone. 
For  he  had  been  talking  with  men  all  day,  which  tires 
and  sometimes  confuses  a  man's  thoughts,  and  now  he 
wanted  to  talk  with  God — for  that  makes  a  man  strong, 
and  puts  all  the  confusion  in  order  again,  and  lets  a  man 
know  what  he  is  about  So  he  went  to  the  top  of  the 
hill.  That  was  his  secret  chamber.  It  had  no  door ; 
but  that  did  not  matter — no  one  could  see  him  but  God. 
There  he  stayed  for  hours — sometimes,  I  suppose,  kneel- 
ing in  his  prayer  to  God ;  sometimes  sitting,  tired  with 
his  own  thinking,  on  a  stone ;  sometimes  walking  about, 
looking  forward  to  what  would  come  next — not  anxious 
about  it,  but  contemplating  it.  For  just  before  he  came 
up  here,  some  of  the  people  who  had  been  with  him 
wanted  to  make  him  a  king ;  and  this  would  not  do— 
this  was  not  what  God  wanted  of  him,  and  therefore  he 
got  rid  of  them,  and  came  up  here  to  talk  to  God.  It 
was  so  quiet  up  here  !  The  earth  had  almost  vanished. 
He  could  see  just  the  bare  hill- top  beneath  him,  a  ghnok- 


MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      ZfJ 

mer  below,  and  the  sky  and  the  stars  over  his  head. 
The  people  Hkd  all  gone  away  to  their  own  homes,  and 
perhaps  next  day  would  hardly  think  about  him  at  all, 
busy  catching  fish,  or  digging  their  gardens,  or  making 
things  for  their  houses.  But  he  knew  that  God  would 
not  forget  him  the  next  day  any  more  than  this  day,  and 
that  God  had  sent  him  not  to  be  the  king  that  these 
people  wanted  him  to  be,  but  their  servant.  So,  to  make 
his  heart  strong,  I  say,  he  went  up  into  the  mountain 
alone  to  have  a  talk  with  his  Father.  How  quiet  it  all 
was  up  here,  1  say,  and  how  noisy  it  had  been  down  there 
a  little  while  ago  !  But  God  had  been  in  ihe  noise  then 
as  much  as  he  was  in  the  quiet  now — the  oniy  difference 
being  that  he  could  not  then  be  alone  with  him.  I  need 
not  tell  you  who  this  man  was — it  was  the  king  of  men, 
the  servant  of  men,  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  everlasting 
Son  of  our  Father  in  heaven. 

"  Now  this  mountain  on  which  he  was  praying  had  a 
Rmall  lake  at  the  foot  of  it — that  is,  about  thirteen  miles 
long,  and  five  miles  broad.  Not  wanting  even  his  usual 
companions  to  be  with  him  this  evening — partly,  I  pre- 
sume, because  they  were  of  the  same  mind  as  those  who 
desired  to  take  him  by  force  and  make  him  a  king — he 
had  sent  them  away  in  their  boat,  to  go  across  this  water 
to  the  other  side,  where  were  their  homes  and  their 
families.  Now,  it  was  not  pitch  dark  either  on  the 
mountain-top  or  on  the  water  down  be^ow;  yet  I  doubt 
if  any  other  man  than  he  would  have  been  keen-eyed 
enaigh  to  discover  that  little  boat  down  in  the  middle 
of  the  lake,  much  distressed  by  the  west  wind  that  blew 


2f4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


right  in  their  teeth.  But  he  loved  every  man  in  it  so 
much,  that  I  think  even  as  he  was  talking  to  his 
Father,  his  eyes  would  now  and  then  go  looking  for  and 
finding  it — watching  it  on  its  way  across  to  the  other 
side.  You  must  remember  that  it  was  a  little  boat;  and 
there  are  often  tremendous  storms  upon  these  small  lakes 
with  great  mountains  about  them.  For  the  wind  will 
come  all  at  once,  rushing  down  through  the  clefts  in  as 
sudden  a  squall  as  ever  overtook  a  sailor  at  sea.  And 
then,  you  know,  there  is  no  sea-room.  If  the  wind  get 
the  better  of  them,  they  are  on  the  shore  in  a  few 
minutes,  whichever  way  the  wind  may  blow.  He  saw 
them  worn  out  at  the  oar,  toiling  in  rowing,  for  the  wind 
was  contrary  unto  them.  So  the  time  for  loneliness  ant! 
prayer  was  over,  and  the  time  to  go  down  out  of  his 
secret  chamber  and  help  his  brethren  was  come.  He 
did  not  need  to  turn  and  say  good-bye  to  his  Father,  as 
if  he  dwelt  on  that  mountain-top  alone :  his  Father  was 
down  there  on  the  lake  as  well.  He  went  straight  down. 
Could  not  his  Father,  if  he  too  was  down  on  the  lake, 
help  them  without  him  ?  Yes.  But  he  wanted  him  to  do 
it,  that  they  might  see  that  he  did  it  Otherwise  they 
could  only  have  thought  that  the  wind  fell  and  the 
waves  lay  down,  without  supposing  for  a  moment  that 
their  Master  or  his  Father  had  had  an}' chin j  to  do  with 
it.  They  would  have  done  just  as  people  do  now-a-days; 
they  think  that  the  help  comes  of  itself,  instead  of  by 
the  will  of  him  who  determined  from  the  first  that 
men  should  be  helped.  So  the  Master  went  down  the 
hiiL       VVhsn  he  reached   the  border  of  the  lake,  the 


MY    FIRST    SERMON     IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH,      215 

¥?ind  being  from  the  other  side,  he  must  have  found  the 
waves  breaking  furiously  upon  the  rocks.  But  that 
made  no  difference  to  him.  He  looked  out  as  he  stood 
alone  on  the  edge  amidst  the  rushing  wind  and  the 
noise  of  the  water,  out  over  the  waves  under  the  clear 
starry  sky,  saw  where  the  tiny  boat  was  tossed  about  like 
a  nutshell,  and  set  out** 

The  mariners  had  been  staring  at  me  up  to  this  point, 
leaning  forward  on  their  benches  for  sailors  are  nearly  as 
fond  of  a  good  yarn  as  they  are  of  tobacco  ;  and  I  heard 
afterwards  that  they  had  voted  parson's  yarn  a  good  one. 
Now,  however,  I  saw  one  of  them,  probably  more  igno- 
rant than  the  others,  cast  a  questioning  glance  at  his 
neighbour.  It  was  not  returned,  and  he  fell  again  into  a 
listening  attitude.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  was  coming. 
He  probably  thought  parson  had  forgotten  to  say  how 
Jesus  had  come  by  a  boat. 

"The  companions  of  our  Lord  had  not  been  willing 
to  go  away  and  leave  him  behind.  Now,  I  dare  say, 
they  wished  more  than  ever  that  he  had  been  with  them 
— not  that  they  thought  he  could  do  anything  with  a 
storm,  only  that  somehow  they  would  have  been  less 
afraid  with  his  face  to  look  at.  They  had  seen  him  cure 
men  of  dreadful  diseases;  they  had  seen  him  turn 
water  into  wine — some  of  them ;  they  had  seen  him  feed 
five  thousand  people  the  day  before  with  live  loaves  and 
two  small  fishes;  but  had  one  of  their  number  sug- 
gested that  if  he  had  been  with  them,  they  would  have 
been  safe  from  the  stxm,  they  would  not  have  talked  any 
nonsense  about  the  laws  of  nature,  not  having  learned 


il6  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH 

that  kind  of  nonsense,  but  they  would  have  said  that 
was  quite  a  different  thing — altogether  too  much  to  ex- 
pect or  beheve  :  nobody  could  make  the  wind  mind  what 
it  was  about,  o?  keep  the  water  from  drowning  you  if  you 
fell  into  it  and  couldn't  swim ;  or  such  like. 

"  At  length,  when  they  were  nearly  worn  out,-  taking 
feebler  and  feebler  strokes,  sometimes  missing  the  water 
altogether,  at  other  times  burying  their  oars  in  it  up  to 
the  handles — as  they  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  huge  wave, 
one  of  them  gave  a  cry,  and  they  all  stopped  rowing  and 
stared,  leaning  forward  to  peer  through  the  darkness. 
And  through  the  spray  which  the  wind  tore  from  the 
tops  of  the  waves  and  scattered  before  it  like  dust,  they 
saw,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  or  so  from  the  boat,  some- 
thing standing  up  from  the  surface  of  the  water.  It 
seemed  to  move  towards  them.  It  was  a  shape  like  a 
.man.  They  all  cried  out  with  fear,  as  was  natural;  for 
they  thought  it  must  be  a  ghost." 

How  the  faces  of  the  sailors  strained  towards  me  at 
this  part  of  the  story  !  I  was  afraid  one  of  them  espe- 
cially was  on  the  point  of  getting  up  to  speak,  as  we  have 
neard  of  sailors  doing  in  chv^roh.     I  went  on. 

"  But  then,  over  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  the  waters 
^ame  the  voice  they  knew  so  well.  It  said,  '  Be  of  good 
cheer ;  it  is  I.  Be  not  afraid.*  I  should  think,  between 
wonder  and  gladness,  they  hardly  knew  for  some  mo- 
ments where  they  were  or  what  they  were  about.  Peter 
was  the  first  io  recover  himself  apparently.  In  the  first 
flush  of  his  deligiit  he  felt  strong  and  full  of  courage 
*  Lordi  if  it  be  tbou/  he  said,  *  bid  we  come  unto  thet 


MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      2lJ 

on  the  water.*  Jesus  just  said,  *  Come  ;'  and  Peter  un- 
shipped his  oar,  and  scrambled  over  the  gunwale  on  to 
the  sea.  But  when  he  let  go  his  hold  of  the  boat,  and 
began  to  look  about  him,  and  saw  how  the  wind 
was  tearing  the  water,  and  how  it  tossed  and  raved  be- 
tween him  and  Jesus,  he  began  to  be  afraid.  And  as 
soon  as  he  began  to  be  afraid  he  began  to  sink ;  but  he 
had,  notwithstanding  his  fear,  just  sense  enough  to  do 
the  one  sensible  thing :  he  cried  out,  *  Lord,  save  me.* 
And  Jesus  put  out  his  hand,  and  took  hold  of  him,  and 
lifted  him  out  of  the  water,  and  said  to  him,  *  O  thou  of 
little  faith,  wherefore  didst  thou  doubt?'  And  then  they 
got  into  the  boat,  and  the  wind  fell  all  at  once  and 
altogether. 

**  Now,  you  will  not  think  that  Peter  was  a  coward, 
will  you  ?  It  wasn't  that  he  hadn't  courage,  but  that  he 
hadn't  enough  of  it.  And  why  was  it  that  he  hadn't 
enough  of  it  1  Because  he  hadn't  faith  enough.  Peter 
was  always  very  easily  impressed  with  the  look  of  things. 
Jt  wasn't  at  all  likely  that  a  man  should  be  able  to  walk 
on  the  water;  and  yet  Peter  found  himself  standing 
on  the  water :  you  would  have  thought  that  when 
once  he  found  himself  standing  on  the  water,  he  need  not 
be  afraid  of  the  wind  and  the  waves  that  lay  between 
him  and  Jesus.  But  they  looked  so  ugly  that  the  fear- 
fulness  of  them  took  hold  of  his  heart,  and  his  courage 
went.  You  would  have  thought  that  the  greatest  trial  of 
nis  courage  was  over  when  he  got  out  of  the  boat,  and 
that  there  was  comparatively  little  more  ahead  of  him. 
Vet  the  sight  of  the  waves  and  the  blast  of  the  boisterous 


H8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

wind  were  too  much  for  him.  I  will  tell  you  how  I  fancy 
it  was  ;  and  I  think  there  are  several  instances  of  the 
same  kind  of  thing  in  Peter's  life.  When  he  got  out  of 
the  boat,  and  found  himself  standing  on  the  water,  he 
began  to  think  much  of  himself  for  being  able  to  do  so, 
and  fancy  himself  better  and  greater  than  his  com- 
panions, and  an  especial  favourite  of  God  above  them. 
Now,  there  is  nothing  that  kills  faith  sooner  than  pride. 
The  two  are  directly  against  each  other.  The  moment 
that  Peter  grew  proud,  and  began  to  think  about  himself 
instead  of  about  his  Master,  he  began  to  lose  his  faith, 
^  and  then  he  grew  afraid,  and  then  he  began  to  sink— 
and  that  brought  him  to  his  senses.  Then  he  forgot  him- 
self and  remembered  his  Master,  and  then  the  hand  of 
the  Lord  caught  him,  and  the  voice  of  the  Lord  gently  re- 
buked him  for  the  smallness  of  his  faith,  asking,  *  Where- 
fore didst  thou  doubt  r  I  wonder  if  Peter  was  able  to 
read  his  own  heart  sufficiently  well  to  answer  that  where- 
fore. I  do  not  thmk  it  likely  at  this  period  of  his  history. 
But  God  has  immeasurable  patience,  and  before  he  had 
done  teaching  Peter,  even  in  this  life,  he  had  made  him 
know  quite  well  that  pride  and  conceit  were  at  the  root  of 
all  his  failures.  Jesus  did  not  point  it  out  to  him  now. 
Faith  was  the  only  thing  that  would  reveal  that  to  him, 
as  well  as  cure  him  of  it ;  and  was,  therefore,  the  only 
thing  he  required  of  him  in  his  rebuke.  I  suspect  Peter 
was  helped  back  into  the  boat  by  the  eager  hands  of  his 
companions,  already  in  a  humbler  state  of  mind  than  when 
he  left  it ;  but  before  his  pride  would  be  quite  over- 
come, it  would  need  that  same  voice  of  loving-kindnesi 


MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      210 

fy  call  him  Sataii,  and  the  voice  of  the  cock  to  bring  to 
his  mind  his  loud  boast,  and  his  sneaking  denial ;  nay, 
even  the  voice  of  one  who  had  never  seen  the  Lord  till 
after  his  death,  but  was  yet  a  readier  disciple  than  he — 
the  voice  of  St  Paul,  to  rebuke  him  because  he  dis- 
sembled, and  was  not  downright  honest.  *  But  at  the  last 
even  he  gained  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  enduring  all  ex- 
tremes, nailed  to  the  cross  like  his  Master,  rather  than 
deny  his  name.  This  should  teach  us  to  distrust  our- 
selves, and  yet  have  great  hope  for  ourselves,  and  end- 
less patience  with  other  people.  But  to  return  to  the 
story,  and  what  the  story  itself  teaches  us. 

"  If  the  disciples  had  known  that  Jesus  saw  them  from 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  was  watching  them  all  the 
time,  would  they  have  been  frightened  at  the  storm,  as  I 
have  little  doubt  they  were,  for  they  were  only  fresh- 
water fishermen,  you  know  ?  Well,  to  answer  my  own 
question  " — I  went  on  in  haste,  for  I  saw  one  or  two  of 
the  sailors  with  an  audible  answer  hovering  on  their  lips 
— "  1  don't  know  that,  as  they  then  were,  it  would  have 
made  so  much  difference  to  them;  for  none  of  them  had 
risen  much  above  the  look  of  the  things  nearest  them  yet 
But  supposing  you,  who  know  something  about  him,  were 
alone  on  the  sea,  and  expecting  your  boat  to  be  swamped 
every  moment — if  you  found  out  all  at  once,  that  he  was 
looking  down  at  you  from  some  lofty  hill-top,  and  seeing 
all  round  about  you  in  time  and  space  too,  would  you  be 
afraid?  He  might  mean  you  to  go  to  the  bottom,  you 
know.  Wo  lid  you  mind  going  to  the  bottom  with 
him  looking  at  you  ]     I  do  not  think  I  should  mind 


220  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

it  myself.     But  I  must  take  care  lest  I  be  boastful  like 
Peter. 

"  Why  should  we  be  afraid  of  anything  with  him  look- 
ing at  us  who  is  the  Saviour  of  men  ?  But  we  are  afraid 
of  him  instead,  because  we  do  not  believe  that  he  is 
what  he  says  he  is — the  Saviour  of  men.  We  do  not 
believe  what  he  offers  us  is  salvation.  We  think  it  is 
slavery,  and  therefore  continue  slaves.  Friends,  I  will 
speak  to  you  who  think  you  do  believe  in  him.  I  am 
not  going  to  say  that  you  do  not  believe  in  him ;  but  I 
hope  I  am  going  to  make  you  say  to  yourselves  that  you 
too  deserve  to  have  those  words  of  the  Saviour  spoken 
to  you  that  were  spoken  to  Peter,  *  O  ye  of  little  faith  !  * 
Floating  on  the  sea  of  your  troubles,  all  kinds  of  fears 
and  anxieties  assailing  you,  is  he  not  on  the  mountain- 
top  ?  Sees  he  not  the  little  boat  of  your  fortunes  tossed 
with  the  waves  and  the  contrary  wind  ?  Assuredly  he 
will  come  to  you  walking  on  the  waters.  It  may  not  be 
in  the  way  you  wish,  but  if  not,  you  will  say  at  last,  '  This 
is  better.'  It  may  be  he  will  come  in  a  form  that  will 
make  you  cry  out  for  fear  in  the  weakness  of  your  faith, 
as  the  disciples  cried  out — not  believing  any  more  than 
they  did  that  it  can  be  he.  But  will  not  each  of  you  arouse 
his  courage,  that  to  you  also  he  may  say,  as  to  the 
woman  with  the  sick  daughter  whose  confidence  he  so 
sorely  tried,  *  Great  is  thy  faith '  ?  Will  you  not  rouse 
yourself,  I  say,  that  you  may  do  him  justice,  and  cast 
off  the  slavery  of  your  own  dread]  O  ye  of  little  faith, 
wlierefore  will  ye  doubt  1  Do  not  think  that  the  Lord 
sees  and  will  not  come.     Down  the  mountain  assuredly 


MY    FIRST    SERMON    IN    THE    SEABOARD    PARISH.      221 

he  will  come,  and  you  are  now  as  safe  in  your  troubles 
as  the  disciples  were  in  theirs  with  Jesus  looking  on. 
They  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  so  :  the  Lord  was 
watching  them.  And  when  you  look  back  upon  yout 
past  lives,  cannot  you  see  some  instances  of  the  same 
kind — when  you  felt  and  acted  as  if  the  Lord  had  for- 
gotten you,  and  found  afterwards  that  he  had  been 
watching  you  all  the  time  ? 

"  But  the  reason  why  you  do  not  trust  hini  more  is 
that  you  obey  him  so  little.  If  you  would  only  ask  what 
God  would  have  you  to  do,  you  would  soon  fiwd  your 
confidence  growing.  It  is  because  you  are  proud,  and 
envious,  and  greedy  after  gain,  that  you  do  not  trust 
him  more.  Ah  !  trust  him  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid  of 
these  evil  things,  and  be  clean  and  beautiful  in  heart. 

"  O  sailors  with  me  on  the  ocean  of  life,  will  you, 
knowing  that  he  is  watching  you  from  his  mountain- 
top,  do  and  say  the  things  that  hurt,  and  wrong,  and 
disappoint  him  ?  Sailors  on  the  waters  that  surround 
this  globe,  though  there  be  no  great  mountain  that  over- 
looks the  little  lake  on  which  you  float,  not  the  less  does 
he  behold  you,  and  care  for  you.  and  watch  over  you. 
Will  you  do  that  which  is  unpleasing,  distressful  to  him  f 
Will  you  be  irreverent,  cruel,  coarse!  Will  you  say  evil 
things,  lie,  and  delight  in  vile  stories  and  reports,  with 
his  eye  on  you,  watching  your  ship  on  its  watery  ways, 
ever  ready  to  come  over  the  waves  to  help  you  ?  It  is  a 
fine  thing,  sailors,  to  fear  nothing ;  but  it  would  be  far 
finer  to  fear  noth'mg  decause  he  is  above  all,  and  over 
all,  and  in  vou  all      for  his  sake  and  for  his  love,  give 


222  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

up  everything  bad,  and  take  him  for  your  captaia 
He  will  be  both  captain  and  pilot  to  you,  and  steer  you 
safe  into  the  port  of  glory.  Now  to  God  the  Father," 
&c. 

This  is  very  nearly  the  sermon  I  preached  that  first 
Sunday  morning.  I  followed  it  up  with  a  short  enforce* 
ment  in  the  afiernooo. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

ANOTHER   SUNDAY    EVENING. 

[N  the  evening  we  met  in  Connie's  room,  as 
usual,  to  have  our  talk.  And  this  is  what 
came  out  of  it 

The  window  was  open.  The  sun  was  in 
the  west  We  sat  a  little  aside  out  of  the  course  of  his 
radiance,  and  let  him  look  full  into  the  room.  Only 
VVynnie  sat  back  in  a  dark  comer,  as  if  she  would  get 
out  of  his  way.  Below  him  the  sea  lay  bluer  than  you 
could  believe  even  when  you  saw  it — blue  with  a  deli- 
cate yet  deep  silky  blue,  the  exquisiteness  of  which  was 
tlirown  up  by  the  brilliant  white  lines  of  its  lapping  on 
the  high  coast,  to  the  northward.  We  had  just  sat  down, 
when  Dora  broke  out  with — 

"  I  saw  Niceboots  at  church.     He  did  stare  at  yon, 
papa,  as  if  he  had  never  heard  a  sermon  before." 

"  I  dare  say  he  never  heard  such  a  sermon  before ! " 
said  Connie,  with  the  perfect  confidence  of  inexperience 


224  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

and  partiality — not  to  say  ignorance,  seeing  she  had  not 
heard  the  sermon  herself. 

Here  Wynnie  spoke  from  her  dark  corner,  apparently 
forcing  herself  to  speak,  and  thereby  giving  what  seemeH 
an  unpleasant  tone  to  what  she  said. 

"  Well,  papa,  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  You  are 
always  telling  us  to  trust  in  Him — but  how  can  we,  if  we 
are  not  good  i " 

"  The  first  good  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  look  up  to 
him.  That  is  the  beginning  of  trust  in  him,  and  the 
most  sensible  thing  that  it  is  possible  for  us  to  do.  That 
is  faith." 

**  But  it  *s  no  use  sometimes.* 

**  How  do  you  know  that  1 " 

**  Because  you — I  mean  I — can't  feel  good,  or  care 
about  it  at  all." 

"  But  is  that  any  ground  for  saying  that  it  is  no  use— 
that  he  does  not  heed  you?  that  he  disregards  the 
look  cast  up  to  him  1  that  till  the  heart  goes  with  the 
will,  he  who  made  himself  strong  to  be  the  helper  of 
the  weak,  who  pities  most  those  who  are  most  destitute 
— and  who  so  destitute  as  those  who  do  not  love  what 
they  want  to  love — except,  indeed,  those  who  don't  want 
to  love  1 — that  till  you  are  well  on  towards  all  right  by 
earnestly  seeking  it,  he  won't  help  you?  You  are  to 
judge  him  from  yourself,  are  you? — forgetting  that  all 
the  misery  in  you  is  just  because  you  have  not  got  his 
grand  presence  with  you  ? " 

I  spoke  so  earnestly  as  to  be  somewhat  incoherent  in 
words.     But  my  reader  will  understand.     Wynnie  was 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.  225 

silent.     Connie,  as  if  partly  to  help  her  sister,  followed 
on  the  same  side. 

"  I  (Jon't  know  exactly  how  to  say  what  I  mean,  papa, 
bui  1  wish  I  could  get  this  lovely  afternoon,  ail  full  oi 
sunshine  and  blue,  into  unity  with  all  that  you  teach  u? 
about  Jesus  Christ.  I  wish  this  beautiful  day  came  in 
with  my  thought  of  him,  like  the  frame — gold,  and  red, 
and  blue—  that  you  have  to  that  picture  of  him  at 
home.     Why  doesn't  it?" 

"  Just  because  you  have  not  enough  of  faith  in  him, 
my  dear.  You  do  not  know  him  well  enough  yet 
You  do  not  yet  believe  that  he  means  you  all  gladness, 
\  eartily,  honestly,  thoroughly." 

"  And  no  suffering,  papal** 

"I  did  not  say  that,  my  dear.  There  you  are  on 
your  couch  and  can't  move.  But  he  does  mean  you 
such  gladness,  such  a  full  sunny  air  and  blue  sea  of 
blessedness  that  this  suffering  shall  count  for  little  in 
it ;  nay,  more,  shall  be  taken  in  for  part,  and,  like  the 
rocks  that  interfere  with  the  roll  of  the  sea,  flash  out  the 
white  that  glorifies  and  intensifies  the  whole — to  pass 
away  by  and  by,  I  trust,  none  the  less.  What  a  chance 
you  have,  my  (Ronnie,  of  believing  in  him,  of  offering 
upon  his  altar  1** 

"  But,"  said  my  wife,  "  are  not  these  feelings  in  a  great 
measure  dependent  upon  the  state  of  one's  health  1  i 
hnd  it  so  different  when  the  sunshine  is  inside  me  i^ 
well  as  outside  me." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  dear.  Lut  that  is  only  the 
uore  reason  for  rising  above  all  that.     From  the  way 


«2b  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

some  people  speak  of  physical  difficulties — I  don't  mean 
yc.  u,  wife — you  would  think  that  they  were  not  merely 
liie  inevitable  which  they  are,  but  the  insurmountable 
which  they  are  not.  That  they  are  physical  and  not 
spiritual,  is  not  only  a  great  consolation,  but  a  strong 
argument  for  overcoming  them.  For  all  that  is  physical 
is  put  or  is  in  the  process  of  being  put  under  the  feet  of 
the  spiritual.  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  do  not  say  you 
can  make  yourself  merry  or  happy,  when  you  are  in  a 
physical  condition  which  is  contrary  to  such  mental 
condition.  But  you  can  withdraw  from  it — not  all  at 
once ;  but  by  practice  and  effort,  you  can  learn  to  with- 
draw from  it,  refusing  to  allow  your  judgments  and 
actions  to  be  ruled  by  it.  You  can  climb  up  out  of  the 
fogs,  and  sit  quiet  in  the  sunlight  on  the  hill-side  of 
faith.  You  cannot  be  merry  down  below  in  the  fog,  for 
there  is  the  fog ;  but  you  can  every  now  and  then  fly 
with  the  dove-wings  of  the  soul  up  into  the  clear,  to 
remind  yourself  that  all  this  passes  away,  is  but  an 
accident,  and  that  the  sun  shines  always,  although  it 
may  not  at  any  given  moment  be  shining  on  you. 
*What  does  that  matter?'  you  will  learn  to  say.  *  It  is 
enough  for  me  to  know  that  the  sur  does  shine,  and 
that  this  is  only  a  weary  fog  that  is  round  about  me  for 
the  moment.  I  shall  come  out  into  the  light  beyond 
presently.*  This  is  faith — faith  in  God,  who  is  the  light, 
and  is  all  in  all.  I  believe  that  the  most  glorious  in- 
sts.nces  of  calmness  in  suffering  are  thus  achieved; 
that  the  sufferers  really  do  not  suffer  what  one  of  us 
tvould  if  thrown  into  tlieir  physical  condition  wit'  out 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENINGS  227 


the  refuge  of  their  spiritual  condition  as  well ;  for  the^ 
have  taken  refuge  in  the  inner  chamber.  Out  of  the 
spring  of  their  life  a  power  goes  forth  that  quenches, 
the  flames  of  the  furnace  of  their  suffering,  so  far  at 
least  that  it  does  not  touch  the  deep  life,  cannot  make 
them  miserable,  does  not  drive  them  from  the  posses- 
sion of  their  soul  in  patience,  which  is  the  divine  citadel 
of  the  suffering.     Do  you  understand  me,  Connie  I*' 

"  I  do,  papa.     I  think,  perfectly." 

**  Still  less,  then,  is  the  fact  that  the  difficulty  is  phy- 
sical to  be  used  as  an  excuse  for  giving  way  to  ill-temper, 
and,  in  fact,  leaving  ourselves  to  be  tossed  and  shaken 
by  every  tremble  of  our  nerves.  That  is  as  if  a  man 
should  give  himself  into  the  hands  and  will  and  caprice 
of  an  organ-grinder,  to  work  upon  him,  not  with  the 
music  of  the  spheres,  but  with  the  wretched  growling  of 
the  streets." 

"But,"  said  Wynnie,  "I  have  heard  you  yourself, 
papa,  make  excuse  for  people's  ill-temper  on  this  very 
ground,  that  they  were  out  of  health.  Indeed,"  she 
went  on,  half-crying,  "  I  have  heard  you  do  so  for  myself 
when  you  did  not  know  that  I  was  within  hearing." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  most  assuredly.  It  is  no  fiction,  but 
a  real  difference  that  Ues  between  excusing  ourselves  and 
excusing  other  people.  No  doubt  the  same  excuse  is 
just  for  ourselves  that  is  just  for  other  people.  But  we 
can  do  something  to  put  ourselves  right  upon  a  higher 
principle,  and  therefore  we  should  not  waste  our  time  in 
excusing,  or  even  in  condemning  ourselves,  but'make 
haste  up  the  hill.     Where  we  cannot  work — that  is,  ir 


228  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


the  life  of  another — we  have  time  to  make  all  the  excuse 
we  can.  Nay,  more  ;  it  is  only  justice  there.  We  are 
not  bound  to  insist  on  our  own  rights,  even  of  excuse ; 
the  wisest  thing  often  is  to  forego  them.  But  we  are 
bound  by  heaven,  earth,  and  hell,  to  give  them  to  other 
people.  And,  besides,  what  a  comfort  to  ourselves  to 
be  able  to  say,  *  It  is  true  So-and-so  was  cross  to-day.  But 
it  wasn't  in  the  least  that  he  wasn't  friendly,  or  didn't 
like  me ;  it  was  only  that  he  had  eaten  something  that 
hadn't  agreed  with  him.  I  could  see  it  in  his  eye.  He 
had  one  of  his  headaches.'  Thus,  you  see,  justice  to 
our  neighbour,  and  comfort  to  ourselves,  is  one  and  the 
same  thing.  But  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  to  have  to 
think  that  when  we  found  ourselves  in  the  same  ungracious 
condition,  from  whatever  cause,  we  had  only  to  submit 
to  it  saying,  *  It  is  a  law  of  nature,'  as  even  those  who 
talk  most  about  laws  will  not  do,  when  those  laws  come 
between  them  and  their  own  comfort  They  are  ready 
enough  then  to  call  in  the  aid  of  higher  laws,  which,  so 
far  from  being  contradictory,  overrule  the  lower  to  get 
things  into  something  like  habitable,  endurable  condi- 
tion. It  may  be  a  law  of  nature,  but  what  has  the  Law 
of  the  Spirit  of  Life  to  propound  anent  it  ?  as  the  Scotch 
lawyers  would  say." 

A  little  pause  followed,  during  which  I  hope  some  of 
us  were  thinking.  That  Wynnie,  at  least,  was,  her  next 
question  made  evident 

"  What  you  say  about  a  law  of  nature  and  a  law  of  the 
Spirit,  makes  me  think  again  how  that  walking  on  the 
water  has  always  been  a  puzzle  to  me." 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.  229 

**It  could  hardly  be  other,  seeing  that  we  cannot  pos* 
fiibly  understand  it,"  I  answered. 

"But  I  find  it  so  hard  to  believe.  Can't  you  say 
something,  papa,  to  help  me  to  beUeve  it  1 " 

"  I  think  if  you  admit  what  goes  before,  you  will  find 
there  is  nothing  against  reason  in  the  story." 

**  Tell  me,  please,  what  you  mean." 

"If  all  things  were  made  by  Jesus,  the  Word  of  God, 
would  it  be  reasonable  that  the  water  that  he  had  created 
should  be  able  to  drown  him  ? " 

**  It  might  drown  his  body." 

**It  would  if  he  had  not  the  power  over  it  still,  to 
prevent  it  from  laying  hold  of  him.  But  just  think  for  a 
moment  God  is  a  spirit.  Spirit  is  greater  than  matter. 
Spirit  makes  matter.  Think  what  it  was  for  a  human 
body  to  have  such  a  divine  creative  power  dwelling  in 
it  as  that  which  dwelt  in  the  human  form  of  Jesus  1 
What  power,  and  influence,  and  utter  rule  that  spirit 
must  have  over  the  body  in  which  it  dwells  !  We  cannot 
imagine  how  much ;  but  if  we  have  so  much  power  over 
our  bodies,  how  much  more  must  the  pure,  divine  Jesus 
have  had  over  his  !  I  suspect  this  miracle  was  wrought, 
not  through  anything  done  to  the  water,  but  through  the 
power  of  the  spirit  over  the  body  of  Jesus,  which  was  all 
obedient  thereto.  I  am  not  explaining  the  miracle,  for 
that  I  cannot  do.  One  day  I  think  it  will  be  plain  com- 
n^on  sense  to  us.  But  now  I  am  only  showing  you  what 
seems  to  me  to  bring  us  a  step  nearer  to  the  essential 
region  of  the  miracle,  and  so  far  make  it  easier  to  believe. 
If  we  look  at  the  history  of  our  Lord,  we  shall  find  that, 


ty>  THF    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


true  real  human  body  as  his  was,  it  was  yet  used  by  his 
spirit  after  a  fashion  in  which  we  cannot  yet  use  ouf 
bodies.  And  this  is  only  reasonable.  Let  me  give  you 
an  instance.  You  remember  how,  on  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration,  that  body  shone  so  that  the  light  of  it 
illuminated  all  his  garments.  You  do  not  surely  suppose 
that  this  shine  was  external — physical  light,  as  we  say, 
merely  f  No  doubt  it  was  physical  light,  for  how  else 
would  their  eyes  have  seen  iti  But  where  did  it  come 
from  ?  What  was  its  source  1  I  think  it  was  a  natural 
outburst  of  glory  from  the  mind  of  Jesus,  filled  with  the 
perfect  life  of  communion  with  his  Father — the  light  of 
his  divine  blessedness  taking  form  in  physical  radiance 
that  permeated  and  glorified  all  that  surrounded  him. 
As  the  body  is  the  expression  of  the  soul,  as  the  face  of 
Jesus  himself  was  the  expression  of  the  being,  the  thought, 
the  love  of  Jesus,  in  like  manner  this  radiance  was  the 
natural  expression  of  his  gladness,  even  in  the  face  of 
that  of  which  they  had  b<=»en  talking — Moses,  Elias,  and 
he — namely,  the  decease  that  he  should  accomplish  at 
Jerusalem.  A|;ain,  after  his  resurrection,  he  convinced 
the  hands,  as  well  as  the  eyes,  of  doubting  Thomas,  Chat 
he  was  indeed  there  in  the  body;  and  yet  that  body 
could  appear  and  disappear  as  the  Lord  willed.  All 
this  is  full  of  marvel,  I  grant  you ;  but  probably  far 
more  intelligible  to  us  in  a  further  state  of  existence  than 
some  of  the  most  simple  facts  with  regard  to  our  own 
bodies  are  to  us  now,  only  that  we  are  so  used  to  them 
that   we   never    think    how   unintelligible    they    really 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.  J3I 

**  But  then  about  Peter,  papa  1  What  you  have  been 
saying  will  not  apply  to  Peter's  bod),  you  know." 

**  I  confess  there  is  more  difficulty  there.  But  if  you 
can  suppose  that  such  power  were  indwelling  in  Jesus, 
you  cannot  limit  the  sphere  of  its  action.  As  he  is  the 
head  of  the  body,  his  church,  in  all  spiritual  things,  so 
I  firmly  believe,  however  little  we  can  understand  about 
it,  is  he  in  all  natural  things  as  well.  Peter's  faith  in  him 
brought  even  Peter*s  body  within  the  sphere  of  the  outgo- 
ing power  of  the  Master.  Do  you  suppose  that  because 
Peter  ceased  to  be  brave  and  trusting,  therefore  Jesus  with- 
drew from  him  some  sustaining  power,  and  allowed  him 
to  sink  ?  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  believe  Peter's  sinking  fol- 
lowed naturally  upon  his  loss  of  confidence.  Thus  he  fell 
away  from  the  hfe  of  the  Master ;  was  no  longer,  in  that 
way  I  mean,  connected  with  the  Head,  was  instantly 
under  the  dominion  of  the  natural  law  of  gravitation,  as 
we  call  it,  and  began  to  sink.  Therefore  the  Lord  must 
take  other  means  to  save  him.  He  must  draw  nigh  to 
him  in  a  bodily  manner.  The  pride  of  Peter  had  with- 
drawn him  from  the  immediate  spiritual  influence  of 
Christ,  conquering  his  matter;  and  therefore  the  Lord 
must  come  over  the  stormy  space  between,  come  nearer 
to  him  in  the  body,  and  from  his  own  height  of  safety 
above  the  sphere  of  the  natural  law,  stretch  out  to  him 
the  arm  of  physical  aid,  lift  him  up,  lead  him  to  the 
boat.  The  v/hole  salvation  of  the  human  race  is  figured 
♦n  this  story.  It  is  al).  Christ,  my  love.  Does  tiiis  help 
you  to  believe  at  all  1 " 

"  I  thin.:  it  doeo,  y.apa.     But  it  wants  thinking  over 


23a  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

a  good  deal.  I  always  find  as  I  think,  that  lighter  bits 
shine  out  here  and  there  in  a  thing  I  have  no  hope  of 
understanding  altogether.  That  always  helps  me  to 
beHeve  that  the  rest  might  be  understood  too,  if  I  were 
only  clever  enough." 

*  Simple  enough,  not  clever  enough,  my  dear." 

"  But  there's  one  thing,"  said  my  wife,  "  that  is  more 
interesting  to  me  than  what  you  liave  been  talking  about. 
It  is  the  other  instances  in  the  life  of  St  Peter  in  which 
you  said  he  failed  in  a  similai  manner  from  pride  or 
self-satisfaction.** 

"  One,  at  least,  seems  to  me  very  clear.  You  have 
often  remarked  to  me,  Ethel,  how  little  praise  servants 
can  stand;  how  almost  invariably  after  you  have  com- 
mended the  diligence  or  skill  of  any  of  your  household, 
as  you  felt  bound  to  do,  one  of  the  first  visible  results 
was  either  a  falling  away  in  the  performance  by  which 
she  had  gained  the  praise,  or  a  more  or  less  violent 
access,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  individual,  of 
self-conceit,  soon  breaking  out  in  bad  temper  or  imper- 
tinence. Now  you  will  see  precisely  the  same  kind  of 
thing  in  Peter." 

Here  I  opened  my  New  Testament,  and  read  frag- 
mentarily, — "  *  But  whom  say  ye  that  I  am  1  .  .  .  Thou 
art  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  the  living  God.  .  .  .  Blessed 
art  thou,  Simon.  .  .  .  My  Father  hath  revealed  that 
unto  thee.  I  will  give  unto  thee  the  keys  of  the  king- 
dom of  heaven.  ...  I  must  suffer  many  things,  and  be 
killed,  and  be  raised  again  the  third  day.  ...  Be  it  far 
iioni  thee,  Lord.     This  shall  not  be  unto  thee.  .  .  .  Get 


ANOTHER    SUNDAY    EVENING.    •  233 

■  '  ■  . 

thee  behind  me,  Satan.  Thou  art  an  offence  unto  me. 
Just  contemplate  the  change  here  in  the  words  of  our 
Lord.  *  Blessed  art  thou.*  *  Thou  art  an  offence  unto 
me.'  Think  what  change  has  passed  on  Peter's  mood 
before  the  second  of  these  words  could  be  addressed  to 
him  to  whom  the  first  had  just  been  spoken.  The  Lord 
had  praised  him.  Peter  grew  self-sufficient,  even  to  the 
rebuking  of  him  whose  praise  had  so  uplifted  him. 
But  it  is  ever  so.  A  man  will  gain  a  great  moral  victory : 
glad  first,  then  uplifted,  he  will  fall  before  a  paltry  temp- 
tation. I  have  sometimes  wondered,  too,  whether  his 
denial  of  our  Lord  had  anything  to  do  with  his  satisfac- 
tion with  himself  for  making  that  onslaught  upon  the 
high  priest's  servant.  It  was  a  brave  thing  and  a  faith- 
ful to  draw  a  single  sword  against  a  multitude.  In  his 
fi?ry  eagerness  and  inexperience,  the  blow,  well  meant 
to  cleave  Malchus's  head,  missed,  and  only  cut  off  his 
eai;  but  Peter  had  herein  lustified  his  confident  saying 
tha;  he  would  not  deny  him.  He  was  not  one  to  deny 
his  Lord  who  had  been  the  first  to  confess  him  !  Yet  ere 
the  c«ck  had  crowed,  ere  the  morning  had  dawned,  the 
vulgar  grandeur  of  the  palace  of  the  high  priest,  (for 
let  it  \q  art  itself,  it  was  vulgar  grandeur  beside  that 
grandetr  which  it  caused  Peter  to  deny,)  and  the  accus- 
ing ton^  of  a  maid-servant,  were  enough  to  make  him 
c^uail  wh>m  the  crowd  with  lanterns,  and  torches,  and 
weapons,  iad  only  roused  to  fight.  Tnie,  he  was  exc/ted 
then,  and  \^ow  he  was  cold  in  the  middle  of  the  r  ight, 
with  Jesus ^one  from  his  sight  a  prisoner,  and  for  the 
faces   of  fritnds  that   had   there   surrounded   hiin   and 


of  fritn< 


2J4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


Strengthened  him  with  their  sympathy,  now  only  the 
faces  of  those  who  were,  or  whom  at  least  Peter  thought 
to  be  on  the  other  side,  looking  at  -him  curiously,  as  a 
strange  intruder  into  their  domains.  Alas,  that  the 
courage  which  led  him  to  follow  the  Lord  should  have 
thus  led  him,  not  to  deny  him,  but  into  the  denial  of 
him  !  Yet  why  should  I  say  alas  f  If  the  denial  of  our 
Lord  lay  in  his  heart  a  possible  thing,  only  prevented 
by  his  being  kept  in  favourable  circumstances  for  con- 
fessing him,  it  was  a  thousand  times  better  that  he 
should  deny  him,  and  thus  know  what  a  poor  weaK 
thing  that  heart  of  his  was,  trust  it  no  more,  and  give 
it  up  to  the  Master  to  make  it  strong,  and  pure,  ana 
grand.  For  such  an  end  the  Lord  was  willing  to  bear 
all  the  pain  of  Peter's  denial.  Oh,  the  love  of  that  Sor 
of  Man,  who  in  the  midst  of  all  the  wretched  weaknesses 
ot  those  who  surrounded  him,  loved  the  best  in  them, 
and  looked  forward  to  his  own  victory  for  them  tlat 
thev  might  become  all  that  they  were  meant  to  be — ^Ke 
him;  that  the  lovely  glimmerings  of  truth  and  love  that 
were  in  them  now — the  breakings  forth  of  the  lighf  that 
lighteneth  every  man  —  might  grow  into  the  perfect 
human  day ;  loving  them  even  the  more  that  they  were 
so  helpless,  so  oppressed,  so  far  from  that  idea  whicH 
was  their  life,  and  which  all  their  dim  desifis  were 
reaching  after !  *' 

Here  I  ceased,  and  a  little  overcome  with  the  great 
picture  in  my  soul  to  wliich  I  had  been  ahe  only  to 
give  the  poorest  expression,  rose,  and  retired  to  my  own 
room.     There  I  could  only  fall  on  my  kne'S  and  praj^ 


ANOTHER  SUNDAY  EVENING.  235 

that  the  Lord  Christ,  who  had  died  for  me,  might  have 
his  own  way  with  me —  that  it  might  be  worth  his  while 
to  have  done  what  he  did  and  what  he  was  doing  now 
for  me.  To  my  Elder  Brother,  my  Lord,  and  my  God, 
I  gave  myself  yet  again,  confidently,  because  he  cared 
to  have  me,  and  my  very  breath  was  his.  I  would  be 
what  he  wanted,  who  knew  all  about  it,  and  had  done 
everything  that  I  might  be  a  son  of  God — a  living  glory 
of  gladnesti 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

NICEBOOTS. 

HE  next  morning  the  captain  of  the  lost  vessel 
called  upon  me  early  to  thank  me  for  him- 
self and  his  men.  He  was  a  fine,  honest- 
looking,  burly  fellow,  dressed  in  blue  from 
head  to  heel  He  might  have  sat  for  a  portrait  of 
Chaucer's  shipman  as  far  as  his  hue  and  the  first 
look  of  him  went  It  was  clear  that  "  in  many  a  tem- 
4>est  had  his  beard  be  shake,"  and  certainly  "  the  hote 
somer  had  made  his  hew  all  broun;"  but  farther  the 
likeness  would  hardly  go,  for  the  "good  fellow**  which 
Chaucer  applies  with  such  irony  to  the  shipman  of  his 
time,  who  would  filch  wine,  and  drown  all  the  captives 
he  made  in  a  sea-fight,  was  clearly  applicable  in  good 
earnest  to  this  shipman.  Still  I  thought  I  had  some- 
thing to  bring  against  him,  and  therefore  before  we 
parted  I  said  to  him — 

"Thej    tell   me   captain,   that  your  vessel   was  not 


NICEBOOTS.  237 


seaworthy,  and  that  you  could  not  but  have  known 
that" 

"  She  was  my  own  craft,  sir,  and  I  judged  her  fit  for 
several  voyages  more.  If  she  had  been  A  1  she  couldn't 
have  been  mine ;  and  a  man  must  do  what  he  can  for 
his  family. 

**  But  you  were  risking  your  life,  you  know." 

**  A  few  chances  more  or  less  don't  much  signify  to  a 
sailor,  sir.  There  ain't  nothing  to  be  done  without  risk. 
You  '11  find  an  old  tub  go  voyage  after  voyage,  and  she 
beyond  bail,  and  a  clipper  fresh  off  the  stocks  go  down 
in  the  harbour.     It 's  all  in  the  luck,  sir,  I  assure  you/' 

"  Well,  if  it  were  your  own  life  I  should  have  nothing 
to  say,  seeing  you  have  a  family  to  look  after ;  but  what 
about  the  poor  fellows  who  made  the  voyage  with  you  1 
Did  they  know  what  kind  of  a  vessel  they  were  embark- 
ing in  ? " 

*'  Wherever  the  captain*s  ready  to  go  he  '11  always  find 
men  ready  to  follow  him.  Bless  you,  sir,  they  never  ask 
no  questions.  If  a  sailor  was  always  to  be  thinking  of 
the  chances,  he  'd  never  set  his  foot  off  shore." 

"  Still  I  don't  think  it 's  right  they  shouldn't  know." 

**  I  daresay  they  knowed  all  about  the  old  brig  as  well 
as  I  did  myself.  You  gets  to  know  all  about  a  craft  just 
as  you  do  about  her  captain.  She  's  got  a  character  of 
her  own,  and  she  can't  hide  it  long,  any  more  than  you 
can  hide  yours,  sir,  begging  your  pardon.'* 

♦*  I  dare  say  that 's  all  correct,  but  still  I  shouldn't  like 
any  one  to  say  to  me,  *  You  ought  to  have  told  me,  cap- 
tain.'   Therefore,  you  see,  I'm  telling  you,  captain,  and 


233  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

now  I'm  clear. — Have  a  glass  of  wine  before  you  go^** 
I  concluded,  ringing  the  bell. 

**  Thank  you,  sir.  I  '11  turn  over  what  you  Ve  been 
saying,  and  anyhow  I  take  it  kind  of  you." 

So  we  parted.  I  have  never  seen  him  since,  and  shall 
not  most  likely  in  this  world.  But  he  looked  like  a  man 
that  could  understand  why  and  wherefore  I  spoke  as  I 
did.  And  I  had  the  advantage  of  having  had  a  chance 
of  doing  something  for  him  first  of  all.  Let  no  man 
who  wants  to  do  anything  for  the  soul  of  a  man  lose  a 
chance  of  doing  something  for  his  body.  He  ought  to 
b&  willing,  and  ready,  which  is  more  than  willing,  to  do 
t^iat  whether  or  not  j  but  there  are  those  who  need  this 
reminder.  Of  many  a  soul  Jesus  laid  hold  by  healing  the 
suffering  the  body  brought  upon  it  No  one  but  him- 
self can  tell  how  much  the  nucleus  of  the  church  was 
composed  of  and  by  those  who  had  received  health  from 
his  hands,  loving-kindness  from  the  word  of  his  mouth. 
My  own 'opinion  is,  that  herein  lay  the  very  germ  of  the 
kernel  of  what  is  now  the  ancient,  was  then  the  infant 
church  ;  that  from  them,  next  to  the  disciples  themselves, 
went  forth  the  chief  power  of  hfe  in  love,  for  they  too 
had  seen  the  Lord,  and  in  their  own  humble  way  could 
preach  and  teach  concerning  him.  What  memories  o^ 
him  theirs  must  have  been  ! 

Things  went  on  very  quietly,  that  is,  as  I  mean  now, 
^rom  the  view-point  of  a  historian,  without  much  to  re- 
cord bearing  notably  upon  after  events,  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  next  week.  I  wandered  about  my  parish, 
making  acquaintance  with  different  people  in  an  outsido 


NICEBOOTS.  239 


sort  of  way,  only  now  and  then  finding  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  into  their  souls  exc&pt  by  conclusion.  But  1 
enjoyed  endlessly  the  aspects  of  the  country.  It  was  not 
picturesque  except  in  parts.  There  was  little  wood  and 
there  were  no  hills,  only  undulations,  though  many  of 
them  were  steep  enough  even  from  a  pedestrian's  point  of 
view.  Neither,  however,  were  there  any  plains  except 
high  moorland  tracts.  But  the  impression  of  the  whole 
country  was  large,  airy,  sunshiny,  and  it  was  clasped  in 
the  arms  of  the  infinite,  awful,  yet  how  bountiful  sea — if 
one  will  look  at  the  ocean  in  its  world-wide,  not  to  say 
its  eternal  aspects,  and  not  out  of  the  fears  of  a  hide- 
bound love  of  life  I  The  sea  and  the  sky,  I  must  confess, 
dwarfed  the  earth,  made  it  of  small  account  beside  them  ; 
but  who  could  complain  of  such  an  influence  ?  At  least, 
not  I. 

My  children  bathed  in  this  sea  every  day,  and  gathered 
strength  and  knowledge  from  it  It  was,  as  I  have  indi- 
cated, a  dangerous  coast  to  bathe  upon.  The  sweep  of 
the  tides  varied  with  the  varying  sands  that  were  cast 
up.  There  was  now  in  one  place,  now  in  another,  a 
strong  U7idericnv^  as  they  called  it — a  reflux,  that  is,  of 
the  inflowing  waters,  which  was  quite  sufficient  to  carry 
those  who  could  not  swim  out  into  the  great  deep,  and 
rendered  much  exertion  necessary,  even  in  those  who 
could,  to  regain  the  sliore.  But  there  was  a  fine,  strong 
Cornish  woman  to  take  charge  of  the  ladies  and  the 
little  boys,  and  she,  watching  the  ways  of  the  wild  mon- 
Eter,  knew  the  when  and  the  where,  and  all  about  it. 

Connie  got  out  upon  the  downs  every  day.     She  in> 


24©  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

proved  in  health  certainly,  and  we  thought  a  little  even 
in  her  powers  of  motion.  The  weather  continued  su- 
perb. What  rain  there  was  fell  at  night,  just  enough  for 
Nature  to  wash  her  face  with,  and  so  look  quite  fresh  in 
the  morning.  We  contrived  a  dinner  on  the  sands  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bay,  ior  the  Friday  of  this  same 
week. 

The  morning  rose  gloriously.  Harry  and  Charlie 
were  turning  the  house  upside  down,  to  judge  by  their 
noise,  long  before  I  was  in  the  humour  to  get  up,  for  I 
had  been  reading  late  the  night  before.  I  never  made 
much  objection  to  mere  noise,  knowing  that  I  could 
stop  it  the  moment  I  pleased,  and  knowing,  which  was 
of  more  consequence,  that  so  far  from  there  being  any- 
thing wrong  in  making  a  noise,  the  sea  wo  ild  make  noise 
enough  in  our  ears  before  we  left  Kilkhaven.  The  mo- 
ment, however,  that  I  heard  a  thread  of  whining  or  a 
burst  of  anger  in  the  noise,  I  would  interfere  at  once — 
♦reating  these  just  as  things  that  must  be  dismissed  at 
once.  Harry  and  Charlie  were,  I  say,  to  use  their  own 
form  of  speech,  making  such  a  row  that  morning,  how- 
ever, that  I  was  afraid  of  some  injury  to  the  house  or 
furniture,  which  were  not  our  own.  So  I  opened  mj 
door,  and  called  out — 

"  Harry  !  Charlie  !  What  on  earth  are  you  about  1  *' 
** Nothing,  papa,'  answered  Charlie.      "Only  it's  so 
jolly!" 

**  What  is  jolly,  my  boy  ?  *  I  asked. 

**  Oh,  I  don't  know,  papa  !     It  *s  so  jolly  !  ** 

•*Is  it  the  sunshine?"  thought  I;   "and  the  windt 


NICEBOOTS.  241 


God's  world  all  over?  The  God  of  gladness  in  the 
hearts  of  the  lads?  Is  it  that?  No  wonder,  then,  that 
they  cannot  tell  what  it  is  ! " 

I  withdrew  into  my  room ;  and  so  far  from  seeking 
tc  pnt  an  end  to  the  noise — I  knew  Connie  did  not 
mind  it — listened  to  it  with  a  kind  of  reverence,  as  the 
outcome  of  a  gladness  which  the  God  of  joy  had  kindled 
in  their  hearts.  Soon  after,  however,  I  heard  certain 
dim  growls  of  expostulation  from  Harry,  and  having, 
from  experience,  ground  tor  believing  that  the  elder  was 
tyrannising  over  the  younger,  I  stopped  that  and  the 
noise  together,  sending  Charlie  to  find  out  where  the 
tide  would  be  between  one  and  two  o'clock,  and  Harry 
to  run  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  find  out  the  direction 
of  the  wind.  Before  I  was  dressed,  Charlie  was  knock- 
ing at  my  door  with  the  news  that  it  would  be  half-tide 
about  one;  and  Harry  speedily  followed  with  the  dis- 
covery that  the  wind  was  north-east  by  south-west, 
which  of  course  determined  that  the  sun  would  shine  all 
day. 

As  the  dinner-houi  drew  near,  the  servants  went  over, 
with  Walter  at  their  head,  to  choose  a  rock  convenient 
for  a  table,  under  the  shelter  o.  the  rocks  on  the  sands 
across  the  bay.  Thither,  when  Walter  returned,  wc 
bore  our  Connie,  carrying  her  litter  close  by  the  edge  of 
the  retreating  tide,  which  sometimes  broke  in  a  ripple  of 
music  under  her,  wetting  our  feet  with  innocuous  rush. 
The  child's  delight  was  extreme,  as  she  thus  skimmed 
the  edge  of  the  ocean,  with  the  little  ones  gamboling 
about  her,  and  her  mamma  and  Wynnie  walking  quietly 


142  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


on  the  landward  side,  for  she  wished  to  have  no  one 
between  her  and  the  sea. 

After  scrambhng  with  difficulty  over  some  rocky 
ledges,  and  stopping,  at  Connie's  request,  to  let  her 
look  into  a  deep  pool  in  the  sand,  which  somehow  or 
other  retained  the  water  after  the  rest  had  retreated,  we 
set  her  down  near  the  mouth  of  a  cave,  in  the  shadow 
of  a  rock.  And  there  was  our  dinner  nicely  laid  for  us 
on  a  fiat  rock  in  front  of  the  cave.  The  cliffs  rose 
behind  us,  with  curiously-curved  and  variously-angled 
strata.  The  sun  in  his  full  splendour  threw  dark  shadows 
on  the  brilliant  yellow  sand,  more  and  more  of  which 
appeared  as  the  bright  blue  water  withdrew  itself,  now 
rippling  over  it  as  if  it  meant  to  hide  it  all  up  again, 
now  uncovering  more  as  it  withdrew  for  another  rush. 
Before  we  had  finished  our  dinner,  the  foremost  wavelets 
appeared  so  far  away  over  the  plain  of  the  sand,  that  it 
seemed  a  long  walk  to  the  edge  that  had  been  almost  at 
cur  feet  a  little  while  ago.  Between  us  and  it  lay  a 
lovely  desert  of  glittering  sand. 

When  even  Charley  and  Harry  had  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  time  to  stop  eating,  we  left  the 
shadow  and  went  out  into  the  sun,  carrying  Connie  and 
laying  her  down  in  the  midst  of  "  the  ribbed  sea-sand," 
which  was  very  ribby  to-day.  On  a  shawl  a  little  way 
off  from  her  lay  her  baby,  crowing  and  kicking  with  the 
same  jollity  that  had  possessed  the  boys  ever  since  the 
morning.  I  wandered  about  with  Wynnie  on  the  sands, 
picking  up,  amongst  other  things,  strange  creatures  in 
thin  shells  ending  in  vegetable-like  tufts,  if  I  remember 


NTCEBOOTS.  243 


rightly.  My  wife  sat  on  the  end  of  Connie's  litter,  and 
Dora  and  the  boys,  a  little  way  off,  were  trying  how  far 
the  full  force  of  three  wooden  spades  could,  in  digging  a 
hole,  keep  ahead  of  the  water  which  was  ever  tumbling 
in  the  sand  from  the  sides  of  the  same.  Behind,  the 
servants  were  busy  washing  the  plates  in  a  pool,  and 
burying  the  fragments  of  the  feast ;  for  I  made  it  a  rule 
wherever  we  went  that  the  fair  face  of  nature  was  not  to 
be  defiled.  I  have  always  taken  the  part  of  excursionists 
in  these  latter  days  of  running  to  and  fro,  against  those 
who  complain  that  the  loveliest  places  are  being  destroyed 
by  their  inroads.  But  there  is  one  most  offensive,  even 
disgusting  habit  amongst  them — that  of  leaving  bones, 
fragments  of  meat  pies,  and  worse  than  all,  pieces  of 
greasy  paper  about  the  place,  which  I  cannot  excuse,  oi 
at  least  defend.  Even  the  surface  of  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland  lakes  will  be  defiled  with  these  floating 
abominations — not  abominations  at  all  if  they  are  de- 
cently burned  or  buried  when  done  with,  but  certainly 
abominations  when  left  to  be  cast  hither  and  thither  in 
the  wind,  over  the  grass,  or  on  the  eddy  and  ripple  of 
the  pure  water,  for  days  after  those  who  have  thus  left 
their  shame  behind  them  have  returned  to  their  shops 
or  factories.  I  forgive  them  for  trampling  down  the 
grass  and  the  ferns.  That  cannot  be  helped,  and  in 
comparison  of  the  good  they  get,  is.  not  to  be  considered 
a;  all.  But  why  should  they  leave  such  a  savage  trail 
behind  them  as  this,  forgetting  too,  that  though  they 
have  done  with  the  spot,  there  are  others  coming  aftel 
them  to  whom  tiiese  remnants  must  be  an  offence. 


244  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

At  length  in  our  roaming,  Wynnie  and  I  approached  a 
long  low  ridge  of  rock,  rising  towards  the  sea  into  which 
i;  ran.  Crossing  this,  we  came  suddenly  upon  the  painter 
whom  Dora  had  called  Niceboots,  sitting  with  a  small 
easel  before  him.  We  were  right  above  him  ere  we 
knew.  He  had  his  back  towards  us,  so  that  we  saw  at 
once  what  he  was  painting. 

"  Oh,  papa  I "  cried  Wynnie  involuntarily,  ami  the 
painter  looked  round. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said.  "  We  came  over  from 
the  other  side,  and  did  not  see  you  before.  I  hope  we 
have  not  disturbed  you  much." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  he  answered  courteously,  and  rose 
as  he  spoke. 

I  saw  that  the  subject  on  his  easel  suggested  that  of 
which  Wynnie  had  been  making  a  sketch  at  the  same 
time,  on  the  day  when  Connie  first  lay  on  the  top  of  the 
opposite  cliff.  But  he  was  not  even  looking  in  the  same 
direction  now. 

"Do  you  mind  having  your  work  seen  before  it  is 
finished  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least,  if  the  spectators  will  do  me  the 
favour  to  remember  that  most  processes  have  to  go 
through  a  seemingly  chaotic  stage,"  answered  he. 

I  was  struck  with  the  mode  and  tone  of  the  remark. 

•*  Here  is  no  common  man,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  re- 
tponded  to  him  in  something  of  a  similar  style. 

"  I  wish  we  could  always  keep  that  in  mind  with  re- 
gard to  human  beings  themselves,  as  well  as  their  works," 
I  said  aloud. 


NICEBOOTS.  245 


The  painter  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at'  him. 

"  We  speak  each  from  the  experience  of  his  own  pro- 
fession, I  presume,"  he  said. 

*'  But,"  I  returned,  glancing  at  the  little  picture  in  oils 
upon  his  easel,  "  your  work  here,  though  my  knowledge 
of  painting  is  next  to  nothing — perhaps  I  ought  to  say 
nothing  at  all — this  picture  must  have  long  ago  passed 
the  chaotic  stage." 

"  It  is  nearly  as  much  finished  as  I  care  to  make  it,* 
he  returned.  "  I  hardly  count  this  work  at  all.  I  am 
chiefly  amusing,  or  rather  pleasing,  my  own  fancy  at 
present" 

"Apparently,"  I  remarked,  "you  had  the  conical 
rock  outside  the  bay  for  your  model,  and  now  you  are 
finishing  it  with  your  back  turned  towards  it.  How  is 
that?" 

"  I  will  soon  explain,"  he  answered.  "  The  moment 
I  saw  this  rock  it  reminded  me  of  Dante's  Purgatory." 

"Ah,  you  are  a  reader  of  Dante?"  I  said.  "In  the 
original,  I  hope." 

"  Yes.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  brother  painter,  an  Italian, 
set  me  going  with  that,  and  once  going  with  Dante,  no- 
body could  well  stop.  I  never  knew  what  intensity  per  se 
was  till  I  began  to  read  Dante." 

**  That  is  quite  my  own  feeling.  Now,  to  return  to 
your  picture." 

**■  Without  departing  at  all  from  natural  forms,  I  thought 
to  make  it  suggest  the  Purgatorio  to  any  one  who 
remembered  the  description  given  of  the  place  ab  extra 
by  Ulysses,  in  the  end  of  the  twenty-sixth  canto  of  the 


t4<5  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Inferno.  Of  course,  that  thing  there  is  a  mere  rock,  yet 
it  has  certain  mountain  forms  about  it.  I  have  put  it  at 
a  much  greater  distance,  you  see,  and  have  sought  to  make 
it  look  a  solitary  mountain  in  the  midst  of  a  great  water. 
You  will  discover  even  now  that  the  circles  of  the  Pur- 
gatory are  suggested  without  any  approach,  I  think,  to 
artificial  structare;  and  there  are  occasional  hints  at 
figures,  which  you  cannot  definitely  detach  from  the 
rocks — which,  by  the  way,  you  must  remember,  were  in 
one  part  full  of  sculptures.  I  have  kept  the  mountain 
near  enough,  however,  to  indicate  the  great  expanse  of 
wild  flowers  on  the  top,  which  Matilda  was  so  busy 
gathering.  I  want  to  indicate  too  the  wind  up  there  in 
the  terrestrial  paradise,  ever  and  always  blowing  one  way. 
You  remember,  Mr  Walton?" — for  the  young  man, 
getting  animated,  began  to  talk  as  if  we  had  known  each 
other  for  some  time — and  here  he  repeated  the  purport 
of  Dante's  words  in  English  : — 

•*  An  air  of  sweetness,  changeless  in  its  flow, 
With  no  more  strength  than  in  a  soft  wind  lies, 
Smote  peacefully  against  me  on  the  brow. 
By  which  the  leaves  all  trembling,  level-wise, 
Did  every  one  bend  thitherward  to  where 
The  high  mount  throws  its  shadow  at  sunrise.* 

**I  thought  you  said  you  did  not  use  translations?* 
"  I  thought  it  possible  that — Miss  Walton  (?)  "  inter- 
rogatively this — "might  not  follow  the  Italian  so  easily, 
and  I  feared  to  seem  pedantic." 

"  She  won't  lag  far  behind,  I  flatter  myself,"  I  returned. 
•Whose  translation  do  you  quote?" 


NICEBOOTS.  24J 


He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  said  carelessly  : 

*•  I  have  cobbled  a  few  passages  after  that  fashioi 
myself." 

"  It  has  the  merit  of  being  near  the  original  at  least,* 
I  returned ;  "  and  that  seems  to  me  one  of  the  chief  merits 
a  translation  can  possess." 

"  Then,"  the  painter  resumed,  rather  hastily,  as  if  to 
avoid  any  further  remark  upon  his  verses,  "  you  see 
those  white  things  in  the  air  above  ? "  Here  he  turned 
to  Wynnie.  "  Miss  Walton  will  remember — I  think  she 
was  making  a  drawing  of  tne  rock  at  the  same  time  I 
was — how  the  sea-gulls,  or  some  such  birds — only  two  or 
three  of  them — kept  flitting  about  the  top  of  it?" 

"  I  remember  quite  well,"  answered  Wynnie,  with  a 
look  of  appeal  to  me. 

"Yes,"  I  interposed;  "my  daughter  in  describing 
what  she  had  been  attempting  to  draw,  spoke  especially 
of  the  birds  over  the  rock.  For  she  said  the  white  lapping 
of  the  waves  looked  like  spirits  trying  to  get  loose,  and 
the  white  birds  like  foam  that  had  broken  its  chains,  and 
ri-^en  in  triumph  into  the  air." 

Here  Mr  Niceboots,  for  as  yet  I  did  not  know  what 
else  to  call  him,  looked  at  Wynnie  almost  with  a 
start. 

"  How  wonderfully  that  falls  in  with  my  fancy  about 
the  rock  !"  he  said.  "  Purgatory  indeed  !  with  im- 
prisoned souls  lapping  at  its  foot,  and  the  free  souls 
winging  their  way  aloft  in  ether.  Well,  this  world  is  a 
kind  of  purgatory  anyhow — is  it  not,  Mr  Walton  1" 

*'  Certai'ily  it  is.     We  are  here  tried  as  by  fire,  to  seo 


«48  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

what  our  work  is — whether  wood,  hay,  and  stubble,  oi 
gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones/' 

"  You  see,"  resumed  the  painter,  "  if  anybody  only 
glanced  at  my  little  picture,  he  would  take  those  for  sea- 
birds;  but  if  he  looked  into  it,  and  began  to  suspect  me, 
he  would  find  cut  that  they  were  Dante  and  Beatrice  on 
their  way  to  the  sphere  of  the  moon." 

"  In  one  respect  at  least,  then,  your  picture  has  the 
merit  of  corresponding  to  fact ;  for  what  thing  is  there 
in  the  world,  or  what  group  of  things,  in  which  the  natu- 
ral man  will  not  see  merely  the  things  of  nature,  but  the 
spiritual  man  the  things  of  the  spirit  1" 

"  I  am  no  theologian,"  said  the  painter,  turning  away; 
1  thought  somewhat  coldly. 

But  I  could  see  that  Wynnie  was  greatly  interested  in 
him.  Perhaps  she  thought  that  here  was  some  enlight- 
enment of  the  riddle  of  the  world  for  her,  if  she  could 
but  get  at  what  he  was  thinking.  She  was  used  to  my 
way  of  it :  here  might  be  something  new. 

*'  If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  Miss  Walton  with  her 
drawing,  I  shall  be  happy,"  he  said,  turning  again  to- 
wards me. 

But  his  last  gesture  had  made  me  a  little  distrustful  of 
him,  and  I  received  his  advances  on  this  point  with  a 
coldness  which  I  did  not  wish  to  make  more  marked 
than  his  own  towards  my  last  observation. 

*  You  are  very  kind,"  I  said;  "  but  Miss  Walton  does 
<iot  presume  to  be  an  artist." 

I  saw  a  slight  shade  pass  over  Wynnic's  countenance. 
When  I  turned  to  Mr  Niceboots,  a  shade  of  a  different 


N2CEBOOTS.  249 


sort  was  on  his.  Surely  I  had  said  something  wrong  to 
cast  a  gloom  on  two  young  faces.  I  made  haste  to  make 
amends. 

*'  We  are  just  going  to  have  some  coffee,"  I  said,  "  for 
my  servants,  I  see,  have  managed  to  kindle  a  fire.  Will 
you  come  and  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Mrs  Wal- 
ton?" 

"  With  much  pleasure,**  he  answered,  rising  from  the 
rock  whereon,  as  he  spoke  about  his  picture,  he  had 
again  seated  himself.  He  was  a  fine-built,  black-bearded, 
sunburnt  fellow,  with  clear  grey  eyes  notwithstanding,  a 
rather  Roman  nose,  and  good  features  generally.  But 
there  was  an  air  of  suppression,  if  not  of  sadness,  about 
him,  which,  however,  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with 
the  manliness  of  his  countenance,  or  of  its  expression. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  how  am  I  to  effect  an  introduction, 
seeing  I  do  not  yet  know  your  name  P 

1  had  had  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  myself  lest 
I  should  call  him  Mr  Niceboots.  He  smiled  ver) 
graciously,  and  replied — 

"  My  name  is  Percivale — Charles  Percivale." 

"A  descendant  of  Sir  Percivale  of  King  Arthur's 
Round  Table  ? " 

"  I  cannot  count  quite  so  far  back,'*  he  answered,  "  as 
that — not  quite  to  the  Conquest,"  he  added,  with  a  slight 
deepening  of  his  sunburnt  hue.  "  I  do  come  of  a  fight- 
ing race,  but  I  cannot  claim  Sir  Percivale." 

We  were  now  walking  along  the  edge  of  the  still  re- 
treating waves  towards  the  group  upon  the  sands,  Mr 
Percivale  and  I  foremost,  and  Wynnie  lingering  beaind. 


250  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Oh,  do  look  here,  papa!"  she  cried»  from  some  little 
distance. 

We  turned,  and  saw  her  gazing  at  something  on  the 
sand  at  her  feet.  Hastening  back,  we  found  it  to  be  a 
little  narrow  line  of  foam-bubbles,  which  the  water  had 
left  behind  it  on  the  sand,  slowly  breaking  and  passing 
out  of  sight.  Why  there  should  be  foam-bubbles  there 
then,  and  not  always,  I  do  not  know.  But  there  they 
were — and  such  colours !  deep  rose  and  grassy  green 
and  ultramarine  blue ;  and  above  all,  one  dark,  yet 
briUiant  and  intensely-burnished,  metallic  gold.  All  of 
them  were  of  a  solid-looking  burnished  colour,  like 
opaque  body-colour  laid  on  behind  translucent  crystal. 
Those  little  ocean  bubbles  were  well  worth  turning  to 
see ;  and  so  I  said  to  Wynnie.  But,  as  we  gazed,  they 
went  on  vanishing,  one  by  one.  Every  moment  a 
heavenly  glory  of  hue  burst,  and  was  nowhere. 

We  walked  away  again  towards  the  rest  of  our 
party. 

"  Don't  you  think  those  bubbles  more  beautiful  than 
any  precious  stones  you  ever  saw,  papa  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  love,  I  think  they  are,  except  it  be  the  opaL 
In  the  opal,  God  seems  to  have  fixed  the  evanescent  and 
made  the  vanishing  eternal." 

"  And  flowers  are  more  beautiful  things  than  jewels  I" 
the  said,  interrogatively. 

"  Many — perhaps  most  flowers  are,"  I  granted. 

"And  did  you  ever  see  such  curves  and  delicate 
textures  anywhere  else  as  in  the  clouds,  papal" 

**I  think  not — in  the  cirrhous  clouds  at  least — the 


NICEBOOTS.  2?» 


frozen  ones.  But  what  are  you  putting  me  to  my 
catechism  for  in  this  way,  my  child  1** 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  could  go  on  a  long  time  with  that 
catechism;  but  I  will  end  with  one  question  more, 
which  you  will  perhaps  find  a  little  harder  to  answer. 
Only,  I  daresay  you  have  had  an  answer  ready  for  years 
lest  one  of  us  should  ask  yon  some  day." 

*'  No,  my  love.  I  never  got  an  answer  ready  foi 
anything  lest  one  of  my  children  should  ask  me.  But 
it  is  not  surprising  either  that  children  should  be  puzzled 
about  the  things  that  have  puzzled  their  father,  or  that 
by  the  time  they  are  able  to  put  the  questions,  he  should 
have  found  out  some  sort  of  an  answer  to  most  of  them. 
Go  on  with  your  catechism,  VVynnie.  Now  for  your 
puzzle  !** 

"  It's  not  a  funny  question,  papa ;  it's  a  very  serious 
one.  I  can't  think  why  the  unchanging  God  should 
have  made  all  the  most  beautiful  things  wither  and  grow 
ugly,  or  burst  and  vanish,  or  die  somehow  and  be  no 
more.  Mamma  is  not  so  beautiful  as  she  once  was,  is 
she?" 

"  In  one  way  no,  but  in  another  and  better  way  much 
more  so.  But  we  will  not  talk  about  her  kind  of  beauty 
just  now :  we  will  keep  to  the  more  material  loveliness 
of  which  you  have  been  speaking— though,  in  truth,  no 
loveliness  can  be  only  material. — Well,  then,  for  ray 
answer:  it  is,  I  think,  because  God  loves  the  beauty 
so  much  that  he  makes  all  beautiful  things  vanish 
quickly." 

**  1  do  not  understand  you,  [)apa." 


tS2  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  I  daresay  not,  my  dear.  But  I  will  explain  to  you  i 
little,  if  Mr  Percivale  will  excuse  me." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  greatly  interested,  both  in 
the  question  and  the  answer." 

"  Well,  then,  Wynnie  :  everything  has  a  soul  and  a 
body,  or  something  like  them.  By  the  body  we  know 
the  souL  But  we  are  always  ready  to  love  the  bod)- 
instead  of  the  soul.  Therefore,  God  makes  the  bod) 
die  continually,  that  we  may  learn  to  love  the  soul 
indeed.  The  world  is  full  of  beautiful  things,  but  God 
Ims  saved  many  men  from  loving  the  mere  bodies  of 
them,  by  making  them  poor;  and  more  still  by  remind- 
ing them  that  if  they  be  as  rich  as  Croesus  all  their  lives, 
they  will  be  as  poor  as  Diogenes — poorer,  without  even 
a  tub — when  this  world  with  all  its  pictures,  scenery, 
books,  and — alas  for  some  Christians  ! — bibles  even, 
shall  have  vanished  away." 

"  Why  do  you  say  a/as,  papa — if  they  are  Christians 
especially?" 

"  I  say  a/as  only  from  their  point  of  view,  not  from 
mme.  I  mean  such  as  are  always  talkmg  and  arguing 
from  the  Bible,  and  never  giving  themselves  any  trouble 
to  do  what  it  tells  them.  They  insist  on  the  anise  and 
cummin,  and  torget  the  judgment,  mercy,  and  faith. 
These  worship  the  body  of  the  truth  and  forget  the  soul 
of  it.  If  the  flowers  were  not  perishable,  wc  should 
cerse  to  contemplate  their  beauty,  either  blinded  by  the 
passion  for  hoarding  the  bodies  of  them,  or  dulled  by 
the  hebetude  of  commonplaceness  that  the  constant 
presence  of  them  would  occasion.     To  compare  great 


NICEBOOTS.  253 


things  with  small,  the  flowers  wither,  the  bubbles  break, 
the  clouds  and  sunsets  pass,  for  the  very  same  holy 
reason,  in  the  degree  of  its  application  to  them,  for 
which  the  Lord  withdrew  from  his  disciples  and  as- 
cended again  to  his  Father — that  the  Comforter,  the 
Spirit  of  Truth,  the  Soul  of  things,  might  come  to  them 
and  abide  with  them,  and  so,  the  Son  return,  and  the 
Father  be  revealed.  The  flower  is  not  its  loveliness, 
and  its  loveliness  we  must  love,  else  we  shall  only  treat 
them  as  flower-greedy  children,  who  gather  and  gather, 
and  fill  hands  and  baskets  from  a  mere  desire  of  acqui- 
sition, excusable  enough  m  them,  but  the  same  in  kind, 
however  liarmless  in  mode,  and  degree,  and  object,  as 
the  avarice  of  the  miser.  Therefore  God,  that  we  may 
always  have  them,  and  ever  learn  to  love  their  beauty, 
and  yet  more  their  truth,  sends  the  beneficent  winter 
that  we  may  think  about  what  we  have  lost,  and  welcome 
them  when  they  come  again  with  greater  tenderness  and 
love,  with  clearer  eyes  to  see,  and  purer  hearts  to  under- 
stand, the  spirit  that  dwells  in  them.  We  cannot  do 
witnout  the  *  winter  of  our  discontent.*  Shakespeare 
surely  sa^v  that  when  he  makes  Titania  say  in  *  A  Mid- 
summer Ni^^lit's  Dream,* — 

•  T  he  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here' — 
namely,  to  set  things  right ;  and  none  of  those  editors 
who  would  alter  the  line  seem  to  have  been  capable  <rf 
understanding  its  import" 

**  I  think  I  understand  you  a  little,"  answered  Wyn  • 
nie.  Then,  changing  her  tone — *'  I  told  yuu,  papa,  you 
wodd  have  an  aiii>wer  ready:  didn't  I  !** 


254  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"Yes,  my  child — but  with  this  difference  :  I  found  the 
answer  to  meet  my  own  necessities,  not  yours." 

"And  so  you  had  it  ready  for  me  when  I  wanted  it* 

**  Just  so.  That  is  the  only  certainty  you  have  in  re- 
gard to  what  you  give  away.  No  one  who  has  not 
tasted  it  and  found  it  good  has  a  right  to  ofter  any 
spiritual  dish  to  his  neighbour." 

Mr  Percivale  took  no  part  in  our  conversation.  The 
moment  I  had  presented  him  to  Mrs  Walton  and  Con- 
nie, and  he  had  paid  his  respects  by  a  somewhat  stately 
old-world  obeisance,  he  merged  the  salutation  into  a 
farewell,  and,  either  forgetting  my  offer  of  coffee,  or 
having  changed  his  mind,  withdrew,  a  little  to  my  dis- 
appointment, for,  notwithstanding  his  lack  of  response 
where  some  things  he  said  would  have  led  me  to  expect 
it,  I  had  begun  to  feel  much  interested  in  him. 

He  was  scarcely  beyond  hearing  when  Dora  came  up 

to  me  from  her  digging  with  an  eager  look  on  her  sunny 

face. 

"  Hasn't  he  got  nice  boots,  papa  1 " 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  am  unable  to  support  you  in  tTiat 
assertion,  for  I  never  saw  his  boots.'* 

"  I  did  then,"  returned  the  child ;  "  and  I  never  saw 
such  nice  boots." 

'*  I  accept  the  statement  willingly,**  I  replied,  and  we 
heard  no  more  of  the  boots,  for  his  name  was  now  sub- 
stituted for  his  nickname.  Nor  did  I  see  himself  again 
for  some  days — not  in  fact  till  next  Sunday — though  why 
he  should  come  to  church  at  all  was  something  of  a 
puzzle  to  me,  especially  when  I  knew  him  better. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   BLACKSMITH. 

'HE  next  day  I  set  out  after  breakfast  to  ffi« 
quire  about  a  blacksmith.  It  was  not  every 
or  any  blacksmith  that  \\ould  do.  I  must 
not  (ix  on  the  first  to  do  my  work  because 
he  was  the  first.  There  was  one  in  the  village,  I  soon 
learned ;  but  I  found  him  an  ordinary  man,  who,  I  have 
IK  doubt,  could  shoe  a  horse  and  avoid  the  quick,  but 
horn  whom  any  greater  delicacy  of  touch  was  not  to  be 
expected.  Inquiring  further,  I  heard  of  a  young  smith 
who  had  lately  settled  in  a  hamlet  a  couple  of  miles 
distant,  but  still  within  the  parish.  In  the  aftern'-.n  I 
set  out  to  find  him.  To  my  surprise,  he  was  a  pale-faced, 
thoughtful-looking  man,  with  a  huge  frame,  which  ap- 
peared worn  rather  than  naturally  thm,  and  large  eyes  that 
looked  at  the  anvil  as  if  it  was  the  horizon  of  the  world. 
He  had  got  a  horse-shoe  in  his  tongs  when  I  entered. 
Nothwithstanding  the  fiie  that  glowed  on  the  heartii, 


«56  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


and  the  sparks  that  flew  like  a  nimbus  in  eruption  from 
about  liis  person,  the  place  looked  very  dark  to  me 
entering  from  the  glorious  blaze  of  the  almost  noontide 
sun,  and  felt  cool  after  the  deep  lane  through  wliich  1 
had  come,  and  which  had  seemed  a  very  reservoir  of 
sunbeams.  I  could  see  the  smith  by  the  glow  of  his 
horse-shoe;  but  all  between  me  and  the  shoe  was  dark. 

"  Good  morning/*  I  said.  '*  It  is  a  good  thmg  to  find 
a  man  by  his  work.  I  heard  you  half-a-mile  off  or  so, 
and  now  I  ste  you,  but  only  by  the  glow  of  your  work. 
It  is  a  grand  thing  to  work  in  fire." 

He  hfted  his  hammered  hand  to  his  forehead  court- 
eously, and  as  lightly  as  if  the  hammer  had  been  the 
butt-end  o  a  whip. 

**  I  don't  know  if  you  would  say  the  same  i.  you  had 
to  work  at  it  in  weather  like  this,"  he  answered. 

"  If  I  did  not/'  I  returned,  "  that  would  be  the  fault 
of  my  weakness,  and  would  not  affect  the  assertion  I 
have  just  made,  that  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  work  in  fire." 

"  Well,  you  may  be  right,"  he  rejoined  with  a  sigh,  as, 
throwing  the  horse-shoe  he  had  been  fashioning  from 
the  tongs  on  the  ground,  he  next  let  the  hammer  drop 
beside  the  anvil,  and  leaning  against  it,  held  his  head  for 
a  moment  between  his  hands,  and  regarded  the  floor. 
**  It  does  not  much  matter  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "  if  I 
only  get  through  my  work  and  have  done  with  it.  No 
man  sliall  say  I  shirked  what  I  'd  got  to  do.  And  then 
when  it 's  over  there  won't  be  a  word  to  say  agen  me, 
or" 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.     And  now  I  could  se« 


THE    BLACKSMITH.  257 

the  sunlight  lying  in  a  somewhat  dreary  patch,  if  the 
word  dreary  can  be  truly  used  with  respect  to  any  mani 
Testation  of  sunlight,  on  the  dark  clay  floor. 

**  I  hope  you  are  not  ill,"  I  said. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  taking  up  his  tongs  caught 
with  it  from  a  beam  one  of  a  number  of  roughly  finished 
horse-shoes  which  hung  there,  and  put  it  on  the  fire  to 
be  fashioned  to  a  certain  fit.  While  he  turned  it  in  the 
fire,  and  blew  the  bellows,  I  stood  regarding  him.  "  This 
.man  will  do  for  my  work,"  I  said  to  myself;  "though  I 
should  not  wonder  from  the  look  of  him  if  it  was  the  last 
piece  of  work  he  ever  did  under  the  New  Jerusalem." 
The  smith's  words  broke  in  on  my  meditations. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  once  wanted 
to  stay  at  home  from  school  I  had,  I  believe,  a  little 
headache,  but  nothing  worth  minding.  I  told  my  mother 
that  I  had  a  headache,  and  she  kept  me,  and  I  helped 
her  at  her  spinning,  which  was  what  I  liked  best  of  any- 
thing. But  in  the  afternoon  the  Methodist  preacher 
came  in  to  see  my  mother,  and  he  asked  me  what  was 
the  matter  with  me,  and  my  mother  answered  for  me  that 
I  had  a  bad  head,  and  he  looked  at  me ;  and  as  my  head 
was  quite  well  by  this  time,  I  could  not  help  feeling 
guilty.  And  he  saw  my  loo!:,  I  suppose,  sir,  for  I  can't 
account  for  what  he  said  any  other  way,  and  he  turned 
to  me,  and  he  said  to  me,  solemn-like,  *  Is  your  head 
bad  enough  to  send  you  to  the  Lord  Jesus  to  make  you 
whole?'  I  could  not  speak  a  word,  partly  from  bash- 
fulness,  I  suppose,  for  T  was  but  ten  years  old.  So  he 
followed  it  up,  as  they  say:  'Then  you  ought  to  be  a' 


258  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

school,*  says  he.  I  said  nothing,  because  I  couldn't 
But  never  since  then  have  I  given  in  as  long  as  I  could 
stand.  And  I  can  stand  now,  and  lift  my  hammer  too,** 
he  said,  as  he  took  the  horse-shoe  from  the  forg^,  laid  it 
on  the  anvil,  and  again  made  a  nimbus  of  coruscating 
iron. 

"  You  are  just  the  man  I  want,'*  I  said.  **  I  *ve  got 
a  job  for  you,  down  to  Kilk haven,  as  you  say  in  these 
parts." 

"What  is  it,  sir?  Something  about  the  church?  I 
should  ha'  thought  the  church  was  all  spick  and  span  by 
this  time." 

**  I  see  you  know  who  I  am,"  I  said. 

•*0f  course  I  do,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  go  to 
church  myself,  being  brought  up  a  Methodist ;  but  any- 
thing that  happens  in  the  parish  is  known  the  next  day 
all  over  it." 

"You  won't  mind  doing  my  job  though  you  are  a 
Methodist,  will  you  1 "  I  asked. 

"  Not  I,  sir.  If  I  've  read  right,  it 's  the  kult  of  the 
Church  that  we  don't  pull  all  alongside.  You  turned  us 
out,  sir;  we  didn't  go  out  of  ourselves.  At  least,  if  all  they 
say  is  true,  which  I  can't  be  sure  of  you  know,  in  this 
world." 

"  You  are  quite  right  there  though,"  I  answered.  "  And 
in  doing  so,  the  Church  had  the  worst  of  it — as  all  that 
ju  Ige  and  punish  their  neighbours  have.  But  you  have 
been  the  worse  for  it,  too :  all  of  which  is  to  be  laid  to 
the  charge  of  the  Church.  For  there  is  not  one  clergy- 
man I  kno'y — mind,  I  say,  that  I  know-   .rho  would 


THE    BLACKSMITH.  259 


have  made  such  a  cruel  speech  to  a  boy  as  that  the 
Methodist  parson  made  to  you." 

**  But  it  did  me  good,  sir." 

**  Are  you  sure  of  that  1  I  am  not.  Are  you  sure,  first 
of  all,  it  did  not  make  you  proud  ]  Are  you  sure  it  has 
not  made  you  work  beyond  your  strength — I  don't  mean 
your  strength  of  arm,  for  clearly  that  is  all  that  could  be 
wished,  but  of  your  chest,  your  lungs  1  Is  there  not  some 
danger  of  your  leaving  some  one  who  is  dependent  on 
you  too  soon  unprovided  for  ?  Is  there  not  some 
danger  of  your  having  worked  as  if  God  were  a  hard 
master  ? — of  your  having  worked  fiercely,  indignantly,  as 
H  he  wronged  you  by  not  caring  for  you,  not  understand- 
ing you  1 " 

He  returned  me  no  answer,  but  hammered  momently 
on  his  anvil.  Whether  he  felt  what  I  meant,  or  was  of 
fended  at  my  remark,  I  could  not  then  tell.  I  thought 
it  best  to  conclude  the  interview  with  business. 

"  I  have  a  delicate  little  job  that  wants  nice  handling, 
and  I  fancy  you  are  just  the  man  to  do  it  to  my  mind," 
I  said. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  he  asked,  in  a  friendly  manner 
enough. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  would  rather  show  it  to  yon 
than  talk  about  it,"  I  returned. 

"  As  you  please,  sir.     When  do  you  want  me  f  ** 

"  The  first  hour  you  can  come." 

•*  To-morrow  morning  1  '* 

**  If  you  feel  inclined." 

**  For  that  matter,  I  M  lather  go  to  bed*" 


t6o  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


•*  Come  to  me  instead :  it's  light  work.* 

•*  I  will,  sir — at  ten  o'clock." 

**  If  you  please.** 

And  so  k  was  anai^giML 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


THE    LIFE-BOAT. 


TIE  next  da>  rose  glorious.  Indeed,  early  as 
the  sun  rose,  I  saw  him  rise — saw  him.  from 
the  down  above  the  house,  over  the  land  to  the 
east  and  north,  ascend  triumphant  into  his 
own  light,  which  had  prepared  the  way  for  him  ;  while 
the  clouds  that  hung  over  the  sea  glowed  out  with  a 
faint  flush,  as  anticipating  the  hour  when  the  west  should 
clasp  the  declining  glory  in  a  richer  though  less  dazzling 
splendour,  and  shine  out  the  bride  of  the  bridegroom 
east,  which  behold  each  other  from  afar  across  the  in- 
tervening world,  and  never  mingle  but  in  the  sight  of  the 
eyes.  The  clear  pure  light  of  the  morning  made  me 
long  for  the  truth  in  my  heart,  which  alone  could  make 
me  pure  and  clear  as  the  morning,  tune  me  up  to  the 
concert-pitch  of  the  nature  around  me.  And  the  wind 
that  blew  from  the  sunrise  made  me  hope  in  the  God 
who  had  first  breathed  into  my  nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 


262  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

that  he  would  at  length  so  fill  me  with  his  breath,  his 
wind,  his  spirit,  that  I  should  think  only  his  thoughts 
and  live  his  life,  finding  therein  my  own  life,  only  glori 
fied  infinitely. 

After  breakfast  and  prayers,  I  would  go  to  the  church 
10  await  the  arrival  of  my  new  acquaintance  the  smith. 
In  order  to  obtain  entrance,  I  had,  however,  to  go  to 
the  cottage  of  the  sexton.  This  was  not  my  first  visit 
there,  so  that  I  may  now  venture  to  take  my  reader  with 
me.  To  reach  the  door,  I  had  to  cross  a  hollow  by  a 
bridge,  built,  for  the  sake  of  the  road,  over  what  had 
once  been  the  course  of  a  rivulet  from  the  heights  above. 
Now  it  was  a  kind  of  little  glen,  or  what  would  in  Scot- 
land be  called  a  den,  I  think,  grown  with  grass  and  wild 
flowers  and  ferns,  some  of  them  rare  and  fine.  The 
roof  of  the  cottage  came  down  to  the  road,  and,  until 
you  came  quite  near,  you  could  not  but  wonder  where 
the  body  that  supported  this  head  could  be.  But  you 
soon  saw  that  the  ground  fell  suddenly  away,  leaving  a 
bank  against  which  the  cottage  was  built.  Crossing  a 
garden  of  the  smallest,  the  principal  flowers  of  which 
were  the  stonecrop  on  its  walls,  by  a  flag-paved  path,  you 
entered  the  building,  and,  to  your  surprise,  found  yourself, 
not  in  a  little  cottage  kitchen,  as  you  expected,  but  in  a 
waste-looking  space,  that  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
use  for  which  it  had  been  built  There  was  a  sort  of 
loft  along  one  side  of  it,  and  it  was  heaped  with  inde- 
scribable lumber-looking  stuff,  with  here  and  there  a  hint 
at  possible  machinery.  The  place  had  been  a  mill  for 
grinding  corn,  and  its  wheel  had  been  driven  by  tho 


THE    LIFE-BOAT.  263 


Stream  which  had  run  for  ages  in  the  hollow  of  which  I 
have  already  spoken.  But  when  the  canal  came  to  be 
constructed,  the  stream  had  to  be  turned  aside  frcm  its 
former  course,  and  indeed  was  now  employed  uj>on  oc-^ 
casion  to  feed  the  canal ;  so  that  the  mill  of  necessity 
had  fallen  into  disuse  and  decay.  Crossing  this  floor, 
you  entered  another  door,  and  turning  sharp  to-  the  left, 
went  down  a  few  steps  of  a  ladder  sort  of  stair,  and  after 
knocking  your  hat  against  a  beam,  emerged  in  the  com- 
fortable quaint  little  cottage  kitchen  you  had  expected 
earlier.  A  cheerful  though  small  fire  burns  in  the  grate 
— for  even  here  the  hearth-fire  has  vanished  from  the  re- 
cords of  cottage-life — and  is  pleasant  here  even  in  the 
height  of  summer,  though  it  is  counted  needful  only  for 
cooking  purposes.  The  ceiling,  which  consists  only  of 
the  joists  and  the  boards  that  floor  the  bedroom  above, 
is  so  low,  that  necessity,  if  not  politeness,  would  compel 
you  to  take  off"  your  already-bruised  hat.  Some  of  these 
joists,  you  will  find,  are  made  further  useful  by  support- 
ing each  a  shelf,  before  which  hangs  a  little  curtain  of 
printed  cotton,  concealing  the  few  stores  and  postponed 
eatables  of  the  house — forming,  in  fact,  both  store-room 
and  larder  of  the  family.  On  the  walls  hang  several 
coloured  prints,  and  within  a  deep  glazed  frame  the 
figure  of  a  ship  in  full  dress,  carved  in  rather  high  relief 
in  sycamore. 

As  I  now  entered,  Mrs  Coombes  rose  from  a  high- 
backed  settle  near  the  fire,  and  bade  me  good  morning 
with  a  courtesy. 

"  What  a   lovely   day  it  is,  Mrs  Coombes  !     It  is  so 


264  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

blight  over  the  sea,"  I  said,  going  to  the  one  Httle  win- 
dow which  looked  out  on  the  great  Atlantic,  "  that  one 
almost  expects  a  great  merchant  navy  to  come  sailing 
into  Kilkhaven—  sunk  to  the  water's  edge  with  silks,  and 
ivory,  and  spices,  and  apes,  and  peacocks,  hke  the  ships 
of  Solomon  that  we  read  about — ^just  as  the  sun  gets  up 
the  noonstead." 

Before  I  record  her  answer,  I  turn  to  my  reader,  who 
in  the  spirit  accompanies  me,  and  have  a  little  talk  with 
him.  I  always  make  it  a  rule  to  speak  freely  with  the 
L»ss  as  with  the  more  educated  of  my  friends.  I  never 
to'lk  down  to  them,  except  I  be  expressly  explaining 
something  to  them.  The  law  of  the  world  is  as  the  law 
of  the  family.  Those  children  grow  much  the  fastei 
wlio  hear  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  house.  Reaching 
ever  above  themselves,  they  arrive  at  an  understanding 
at  fifteen  which,  in  the  usual  way  of  things,  they  would 
not  reach  before  five-and-twenty  or  thirty ;  and  this  in 
a  natural  way,  and  without  any  necessary  priggishness, 
except  such  as  may  belong  to  their  parents.  Therefore 
I  always  spoke  to  the  poor  and  uneducated,  as  to  my 
own  people,  freely,  not  much  caring  whether  I  should  be 
quite  understood  or  not ;  for  I  believed  in  influences  not 
to  be  measured  by  the  measure  of  the  understanding. 
But  what  was  the  old  woman's  answer?  It  was  this  ^— 
**  I  know,  sir.  And  when  I  was  as  young  as  you  "— 
I  was  not  so  very  young,  my  reader  may  well  think — 
•*  I  thought  like  that  about  the  sea  myself.  Everything 
come  from  the  sea.  For  my  boy  Willie  he  du  bring  me 
home  the  beautifullest  parrot  and  the  talkingest  you  eves 


m-m'iM 


THE    LIFE  BOAT.  «65 


see,  and  the  red  shawl  all  worked  over  with  flowers :  I'll 
show  it  to  you  some  day,  sir,  when  you  have  time.  He 
made  that  ship  you  see  in  the  frame  there,  sir,  all  with 
his  own  knife,  out  on  a  bit  o'  wood  that  he  got  at  the 
Marishes,  as  they  calls  it,  sir — a  bit  of  an  island  some- 
wheres  in  the  great  sea.  But  the  parrot's  gone  dead  like 
the  rest  of  them,  sir. — Where  am  I?  and  what  am  I 
talking  about  V  she  added,  looking  down  at  her  knitting 
as  if  she  had  dropped  a  stitch,  or  rather  as  if  she  had 
forgotten  what  she  was  makmg,  and  therefore  what  was 
to  come  next. 

"  You  were  telling  me  how  you  used  to  think  of  the 
S'>a  " 

"  When  1  was  as  young  as  you.  I  remember,  sir. 
Well,  that  lasted  a  long  time— lasted  till  my  third  boy 
fell  asleep  in  the  wide  water ;  for  it  du  call  it  faUing 
asleep,  don't  it,  sir  V 

**  The  Bible  certainly  does,"  I  answered. 

**  It 's  the  Bible  I  be  meaning,  of  course,"  she  returned- 
'*  Well,  after  that,  but  I  don't  know  what  began  it,  only 
I  did  begin  to  think  about  the  sea  as  something  that 
took  away  things  and  didn't  bring  them  no  more.  And 
somehow  or  other  she  never  look  so  blue  after  that,  and 
she  give  me  the  shivers.  But  now,  sir,  she  always  looks 
to  me  like  one  o'  the  shining  ones  that  come  to  fetch  the 
pilgrims.  You  've  heard  tell  of  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress,' 
1  daresay,  sir,  among  the  poor  people ;  for  they  du  say  it 
was  written  by  a  tinker,  though  there  be  a  power  o'  good 
things  in  it  tbat  I  think  the  gentle  folk  would  like  if  they 
knowed  it** 


•66  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  I  do  know  the  book — nearly  as  well  as  I  know  the 
Bible,"  I  answered ;  "  and  the  shining  ones  are  very 
beautiful  in  it  I  am  glad  you  can  think  of  the  sea  that 
way." 

"  It  *s  looking  in  at  the  window  all  day  as  I  go  about 
the  house,"  she  answered,  *'and  all  night  too  when  I*in 
asleep ;  and  if  I  hadn't  learned  to  think  of  it  that  way,  it 
would  have  driven  me  mad,  1  du  believe.  I  was  forced 
lo  think  that  way  about  it,  or  not  think  at  all  And  that 
wouldn't  be  easy,  with  the  sound  of  it  in  your  ears  the 
last  thing  at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"  The  truth  of  things  is  indeed  the  only  refuge  from 
the  look  of  things,"  I  replied.  "  But  now  I  want  the  key 
of  the  church,  if  you  will  trust  me  with  it,  for  I  have 
something  to  do  there  this  morning ;  and  the  key  of  the 
tower  as  well,  if  you  please." 

With  her  old  smile,  ripened  only  by  age,  she  reached 
the  ponderous  keys  from  the  nail  where  they  hung,  and 
gave  them  into  my  hand.  I  left  her  in  the  shadow  oi 
her  dwelling,  and  stepped  forth  into  the  sunlight.  The 
first  thing  I  observed  was  the  blacksmith  waiting  for  me 
at  the  church  door. 

Now  that  I  saw  him  in  the  full  light  of  day,  and  now 
that  he  wore  his  morning  face  upon  which  the  blackness 
of  labour  had  not  yet  gathered,  I  could  see  more  plainly 
how  far  he  was  from  well,  There  was  a  flush  on  his  thin 
cheek  by  which  the  less  used  exercise  of  walking  re- 
vealed his  inward  weakness,  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  had 
something  of  the  far-country  in  them — "  the  light  tliat 
never  was  on  sea  or  shore;."     But  his  speech  was  cheer- 


THE    LIFE-BOAT.  26j 


ful,  for  he  had  been  walking  in  the  light  of  this  world, 
and  that  had  done  something  to  make  the  light  within 
him  shine  a  little  more  freely. 

**  How  do  you  find  yourself  to-day  1 "  I  asked. 

**  Quite  well,  sir.  I  thank  you/'  he  answered.  **  A  day 
like  this  does  a  man  good.  But,"  he  added,  and  his 
countenance  fell,  "the  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness." 

"  It  may  know  it  too  much,"  I  returned,  "just  because 
it  refuses  to  let  a  stranger  intermeddle  therewith." 

He  made  no  reply.  I  turned  the  key  in  the  great 
lock,  and  the  iron-studded  oak  opened  and  let  us  into 
the  solemn  gloom. 

It  did  not  require  many  minutes  to  make  the  man  un- 
derstand what  I  wanted  of  him. 

"  We  must  begin  at  the  bells  and  work  down,"  he  said. 

So  we  went  up  into  the  tower,  where,  with  the  help  of 
a  candle  I  fetched  for  him  from  the  cottage,  he  made  a 
good  many  minute  measurements ;  found  that  carpen- 
ter's work  was  necessary  for  the  adjustment  of  the  ham- 
mers and  cranks  and  the  leading  of  the  rods,  undertook 
the  management  of  the  whole,  and  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  and  a  half  went  home  to  do  what  had  to  be  done 
before  any  fixing  could  be  commenced,  assuring  me  that 
he  had  no  doubt  of  bringing  the  job  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion,  although  the  force  of  the  blow  on  the  bell 
would  doubtless  have  to  be  regulated  afterwards  by  re- 
peated trials. 

**  In  a  fortnight,  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  play  « 
tune  to  the  parish,  sir,"  he  added  as  he  took  his  leave. 

I  resolved,  if  possible,  to  know  more  of  the  man,  and 


t68  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

find  out  his  trouble,  if  haply  I  might  be  able  to  give  him 
any  comfort,  for  I  was  all  but  certain  that  there  was  a 
deeper  cause  for  his  gloom  than  the  state  of  his  health. 

When  he  was  gone  I  stood  with  the  key  of  the  church 
in  my  hand,  and  looked  about  me.  Nature  at  least  was 
in  glorious  health — sunshine  in  her  eyes,  hght  fantastic 
cloud-images  passing  through  her  brain,  her  breath  com- 
ing and  going  in  soft  breezes  perfumed  with  the  scents 
of  meadows  and  wild  flowers,  and  her  green  robe  shin- 
ing in  the  motions  of  her  gladness.  I  turned  to  lock  the 
church  door,  though  in  my  heart  I  greatly  disapproved 
of  locking  the  doors  of  churches,  and  only  did  so  now 
because  it  was  not  my  church,  and  I  had  no  business  to 
force  my  opinions  upon  other  customs.  But  when  I 
turned  I  received  a  kind  of  questioning  shock.  There 
was  the  fallen  world,  as  men  call  it,  shining  in  glory  and 
gladness,  because  God  was  there ;  here  was  the  way  into 
the  lost  Paradise,  yea,  the  door  into  an  infinitely  higher 
Eden  than  that  ever  had  or  ever  could  have  been,  iron- 
clamped  and  riveted,  gloomy  and  low-browed  like  the 
entrance  to  a  sepulchre,  and  surrounded  with  the  grim 
heads  of  grotesque  monsters  of  the  deep.  What  did 
it  mean  f  Here  was  contrast  enough  to  require  har- 
monizing, or  if  that  might  not  be,  then  accounting  for. 
Perhaps  it  was  enough  to  say  that  although  God  made 
both  the  kingdom  of  nature  and  the  kingdom  of  grace, 
yet  the  symbol  of  the  latter  was  the  work  of  man,  and 
might  not  altogether  correspond  to  God's  idea  of  the 
matter.  I  turned  away  ihoughtful,  and  went  through  the 
churchyard  with  my  eye  on  the  graves* 


THE    LIFE-BOAT.  26$ 


As  I  left  the  churchyard,  still  looking  to  tne  earth, 
the  sound  of  voices  reached  my  ear.  I  looked  up. 
There,  down  below  me,  at  the  foot  of  the  high  bank  on 
which  I  stood,  lay  a  gorgeous  shining  thing  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  canal,  full  of  men,  and  surrounded  by  men, 
women,  and  children,  delighting  in  its  beauty.  I  had 
never  seen  such  a  thing  before,  but  I  knew  at  once,  as  if 
by  instinct,  which  of  course  it  could  not  have  been,  that 
it  was  the  life-boat.  But  in  its  gorgeous  colours,  red  and 
white  and  green,  it  looked  more  like  the  galley  that  bore 
Cleopatra  to  Actium.  Nor,  floating  so  light  on  the  top 
of  the  water,  and  broad  in  the  beam  withal,  curved  up- 
ward and  ornamented  at  stern  and  stem,  did  it  look  at 
all  like  a  creature  formed  to  battle  with  the  fierce  ele- 
ments. A  pleasure  boat  for  floating  between  river  banks 
it  seemed,  drawn  by  swans  mayhap,  and  regarded  in  its 
course  by  fair  eyes  from  green  terrace-walks,  or  oriel 
windows  of  ancient  houses  on  verdant  lawns.  Ten  men 
sat  on  the  thwarts,  and  one  in  the  stern  by  the  yet  use- 
less rudder,  while  men  and  boys  drew  the  showy  thing 
by  a  rope  downward  to  the  lock-gates.  The  men  in  the 
boat  wore  blue  jerseys,  but  you  could  see  litde  of  the 
colour  for  strange  unshapely  things  that  they  wore  above 
them,  like  an  armour  cut  out  of  a  row  of  organ  pipes. 
They  were  their  cork-jackets.  For  every  man  had  to  be 
made  into  a  life-boat  himself.  I  descended  the  bankj 
and  stood  on  the  cdgQ  of  the  canal  as  it  drew  near. 
Then  1  saw  that  every  oar  was  loosely  but  firmly  fastened 
to  the  rowlock,  so  that  it  could  be  dropped  and  caught 
again  in  a  momeut ;  and  that  the  gay  sides  of  the  uc.- 


270  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

w'ieldly  looking  creature  were  festooned  with  ropes  from 
the  gunwale,  for  the  men  to  lay  hold  of  when  she' 
capsized,  for  the  earlier  custom  of  fastening  the  men  to 
their  seats  had  been  quite  given  up,  because  their  weight 
under  the  water  might  prevent  the  boat  from  righting 
itself  again,  and  the  men  could  not  come  to  the  surface. 
Now  they  had  a  better  chance  in  their  freedom,  though 
why  they  should  not  be  loosely  attached  to  the  boat,  I 
do  not  quite  see. 

They  towed  the  shining  thing  through  the  upper  gate 
of  the  lock,  and  slowly  she  sank  from  my  sight,  and  for 
some  moments  was  no  more  to  be  seen,  for  I  had  re- 
mained standing  where  first  she  passed  me.  All  at  once 
there  she  was  beyond  the  covert  of  the  lock-head,  abroad 
and  free,  fleeting  from  the  strokes  of  ten  swift  oars  over 
the  still  waters  of  the  bay  towards  the  waves  that  roared 
further  out  where  the  ground-swell  was  broken  by  the 
rise  of  the  sandy  coast.  There  was  no  vessel  in  danger 
now,  as  the  talk  of  the  spectators  informed  me ;  it  was 
only  for  exercise  and  show  that  they  went  out.  It 
seemed  all  child's  play  for  a  time ;  but  when  they  got 
among  the  broken  waves,  then  it  looked  quite  another 
thing.  The  motion  of  the  waters  laid  hold  upon  her, 
and  soon  tossed  her  fearfully,  now  revealing  the  whole  of 
her  capacity  on  the  near  side  of  one  of  their  slopes,  now 
hiding  her  whole  bulk  m  one  of  their  hollows  beyond. 
She,  careless  as  a  child  in  the  troubles  of  the  v  orld, 
floated  about  amongst  them  with  what  appeared  too  much 
buoyancy  for  the  promise  of  a  safe  return.  Again  and 
ttgain  she  was  driven  from  her  course  towards  the  low 


THE    LIFE-BOAT.  271 


rocks  on  the  other  side  of  the  bay,  and  again  and  again 
returned  to  disport  herself,  like  a  sea-animal,  as  it 
seemed,  upon  the  backs  of  the  wild,  rolling  and  bursting 
billows. 

"  Can  she  go  no  further ! "  I  asked  of  the  captain  ol 
the  coastguard,  whom  I  found  standing  by  my  side. 

"  Not  without  some  danger,"  he  answered. 

**  What,  then,  must  it  be  in  a  storm  I "  I  remarked. 

•*  Then  of  course,"  he  returned,  "  they  must  take  their 
chance.  But  there  is  no  good  in  running  risks  fof 
nothing.     That  swell  is  quite  enough  for  exercise." 

"But  is  it  enough  to  accustom  them  to  face  the 
danger  that  will  come  ] "  I  asked. 

"  With  danger  comes  courage,"  said  the  old  sailor. 

*  Were  you  ever  afraid  1 " 

**  No,  sir.  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  afraid.  Yes,  I 
believe  I  was  once  for  one  moment,  no  more,  when  I 
fell  from  the  maintop-gallant  yard,  and  felt  myself  falling. 
But  it  was  soon  over,  for  I  only  fell  into  the  maintop.  I 
was  expecting  the  smash  on  deck  when  I  was  brought 
up  there.  But,"  he  resumed,  "  I  don't  care  much  about 
tlie  life-boat  My  rockets  are  worth  a  good  deal  more, 
as  you  may  see,  sir,  before  the  winter  is  over ;  for  seldom 
does  a  winter  pass  without  at  least  two  or  three  wrecks 
close  by  here  on  this  coast.  The  full  force  of  the  At- 
lantic breaks  here,  sir.  I  have  seen  a  life-boat — not  that 
one — she 's  done  nothing  yet — ^pitched  stern  over  stem ; 
not  capsized,  you  know,  sir,  in  the  ordinary  way,  but 
struck  by  a  wave  behind  while  she  was  just  hanging  m 
the  balance  on  the  knife-edge  of  a  wave,  and  flung  a 


273  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

iomerset  as  I  say,  stern  over  stem,  and  four  of  her  men 
iost." 

While  we  spoke  I  saw  on  the  pier-head  the  tall 
"^igure  of  the  painter  looking  earnestly  at  the  boat.  I 
liiought  he  was  regarding  it  chiefly  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view,  but  I  became  aware  before  long  that  that  would 
not  have  been  consistent  with  the  character  of  Charles 
Percivale.  He  had  been,  I  learned  afterwards,  a  crack 
oarsman  at  Oxford,  and  had  belonged  to  the  University 
boat,  so  that  he  had  some  almost  class-sympathy  with 
the  doings  of  the  crew. 

In  a  little  while  the  boat  sped  swiftly  back,  entered 
the  lock,  was  lifted  above  the  level  of  the  storm-heaved 
ocean,  and  floated  up  the  smooth  canal  calmly  as  if  she 
had  never  known  what  trouble  was.  Away  up  to  the 
pretty  little  Tudor-fashioned  house  in  which  she  lay^— 
one  could  almost  fancy  dreaming  of  storms  to  come— 
she  went,  as  softly  as  if  moved  only  by  her  "  own  sweet 
will,"  in  the  calm  consolation  for  her  imprisonment  of 
having  tried  her  strength,  and  found  therein  good  hope 
of  success  for  the  time  when  she  should  rush  to  he 
rescue  of  men  from  that  to  which,  as  a  monster  that 
begets  tnonsters,  she  a  watching  Perseis,  lay  ready  to 
offer  battle.  The  poor  little  boat  lying  in  her  little 
house  watching  the  ocean,  was  something  significant  in 
my  eyes,  and  not  less  so  after  what  came  in  the  course 
of  changing  seasons  and  gathered  storms. 

All  this  time  I  had  the  keys  in  my  hand,  and  now 
went  back  to  the  cottage  to  restore  them  to  their  place 
upon  the  wall.     When  I  entered,  there  was  a  young 


THE    LIFE-BOAT.  273 

woman  of  a  sweet  interesting  countenance  talking  to 
Mrs  Coombes.  Now  as  it  happened,  I  had  never  yet 
seen  the  daughter  who  lived  with  her,  and  thought  this 
was  she. 

"I've  found  your  daughter  at  last  thent"  I  said  ap- 
proaching  them. 

"  Not  yet,  sir.  She  goes  out  to  work,  and  her  hands 
be  pretty  full  at  present.  But  this  be  almost  my  daughter, 
sir,"  she  added.  "  This  is  my  next  daughter,  Mary  Tre- 
hern,  from  the  south.  She 's  got  a  place  near  by,  to  be 
near  her  mother  that  is  to  be,  that's  me." 

Mary  was  hanging  her  head  and  blushing,  as  the  old 
woman  spoke. 

"  I  understand,"  I  said.  "  And  when  are  you  going 
lo  get  your  new  mother,  Mary  t     Soon,  I  hope." 

But  she  gave  me  no  reply — only  hung  her  head  lower 
and  blushed  deeper. 

Mrs  Coombes  spoke  for  her. 

"  She  *s  shy,  you  see,  sir.  But  if  she  was  to  speak  her 
mind,  she  would  ask  you  whether  you  wouldn't  marry 
her  and  Willie  when  he  comes  home  from  his  next 
\oyage." 

Mary's  hands  were  trembling  now,  and  she  turned  half 
away. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  said. 

The  girl  tried  to  turn  towaids  me,  but  could  not.  I 
looked  at  her  face  a  little  more  closely.  Through  all  its 
tremor,  there  was  a  look  of  constancy  that  greatly  ple;issd 
me.     I  tried  to  make  her  speak. 

**  Whe/i  do  you  expect  Willie  home  ]  "  1  said. 


274  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

She  made  a  little  gasp  and  murmur,  but  no  articulate 
words  came. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Mary,"  said  her  mother,  as  I 
found  she  always  called  her.  "  The  gentleman  won't  be 
sharp  with  you." 

She  lifted  a  pair  of  soft  brown  eyes  with  one  glance 
and  a  smile,  and  then  sank  them  again. 

''  He  '11  be  home  in  about  a  month,  we  think,"  answered 
the  mother.  "She's  a  good  ship  he's  aboard  of,  and 
makes  good  voyages.** 

**  It  is  time  to  think  about  the  banns,  then,"  I  said. 

*'  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Just  come  to  me  about  it,  and  I  will  attend  to  it— 
when  you  think  proper." 

I  thought  I  could  hear  a  murmured  "Thank  you, 
sir,"  fiora  the  girl,  but  I  could  not  be  certain  that  she 
spoke.  I  shook  hands  with  them,  and  went  for  a  stroll 
OQ  the  other  side  of  the  bay. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MR.   PERCIVALE. 

HEN  I  reached  home  I  found  that  Connie  wae 
already  on  her  watch-tower.  For  while  I 
was  away,  they  had  carried  her  out  that  she 
might  see  the  life-boat.  I  followed  her,  and 
found  the  whole  family  about  her  couch,  and  with  them 
Mr  Percivale  who  was  showing  her  some  sketches  that 
he  had  made  in  the  neighbourhood.  Connie  knew 
nothing  of  drawing;  but  she  seemed  to  me  always  to 
catcli  the  feeling  of  a  thing.  Her  remarks  therefore 
were  generally  worth  listening  to,  and  Mr  Percivale  was 
evidently  interested  in  them.  Wynnie  stood  behind 
Connie,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  the  drawing  in  her 
hand. 

**  How  do  you  get  that  shade  of  green  ] "  I  heard  her 
ask  as  I  came  up. 

And  then  Mr  Percivale  proceeded  to  tell  her  ;  from 


276  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

which  beginning  they  went  on  to  other  things,  till  Mr 
Percivale  said — 

"But  it  is  hardly  fair,  Miss  Walton,  to  criticize  my 
work  while  you  keep  your  own  under  cover." 

"  I  wasn't  criticizing,  Mr  Percivale  :  was  I,  Connie  t" 

"  I  didn't  hear  her  make  a  single  remark,  Mr  Perci- 
vale," said  Connie,  taking  her  sister's  side. 

To  my  surprise  they  were  talking  away  with  the  young 
man  as  if  they  had  known  him  for  years,  and  my  wife 
was  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  apparently  taking  no 
exception  to  the  suddenness  of  the  intimacy.  I  am 
afraid,  when  I  think  of  it,  that  a  good  many  springs 
v/ould  be  missing  from  the  world's  history  if  they  might 
not  flow  till  the  papas  gave  their  wise  consideration  to 
everything  about  the  course  they  were  to  take. 

**  I  think,  though,"  added  Connie,  "  it  is  only  fair  that 
Mr  Percivale  should  see  your  work,  Wynnie.'* 

**  Then  I  will  fetch  my  portfolio,  if  Mr  Percivale  will 
promise  to  remember  that  I  have  no  opinion  of  it  At 
the  same  time,  if  I  could  do  what  I  wanted  to  do,  I 
think  I  should  not  be  ashamed  of  showing  my  drawings 
even  to  him." 

And  now  I  was  surprised  to  find  how  like  grown 
women  my  daughters  could  talk.  To  me  they  always 
spoke  like  the  children  they  were  j  but  when  I  heard 
them  now,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  started  all  at  once 
into  ladies  experienced  in  the  ways  of  society.  There 
they  were  chatting  lightly,  airily,  and  yet  decidedly,  a 
slight  tone  of  badinage  interwoven,  with  a  young  man  of 
^race  and  dignity,  whom  they  had  only  seen  once  belore, 


MR    PERCIVAI.E.  t77 


and  who  had  advanced  no  farther,  with  Connie  at  least, 
than  a  stately  bow.  They  had,  however,  been  a  whole 
hour  together  before  I  arrived,  and  their  mother  had 
been  with  them  all  the  while.^  which  gives  great  courage 
to  good  girls,  while,  I  am  told,  it  shuts  the  mouths  of  those 
who  are  sly.  But  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  there  are 
as  great  differences  in  mothers  as  in  girls.  And  besides, 
I  believe  wise  girls  have  an  instinct  about  men  that  all 
the  experience  of  other  men  cannot  overtake.  But  yet 
again,  there  are  many  girls  foolish  enough  to  mistake  a 
mere  impulse  for  instinct,  and  vanity  for  insight.. 

As  Wynnie  spoke,  she  turned  and  went  back  to  the 
house  to  fetch  some  of  her  work.  Now,  had  she  been 
going  a  message  for  me,  she  would  have  gone  like  the 
wind  ;  but  on  this  occasion  she  stepped  along  in  a  stately 
manner,  far  from  devoid  of  grace,  but  equally  free  from 
frolic  or  eagerness.  And  I  could  not  help  noting  as 
well  that  Mr  Percivale's  eyes  followed  her.  What  I  felt 
or  fancied  is  of  no  consequence  to  anybody.  I  do  not 
think,  even  if  I  were  writing  an  autobiography,  I  should 
be  forced  to  tell  all  about  myself.  But  an  autobiography 
is  further  from  my  fancy,  however  much  I  may. have 
trenched  upon  its  limits,  than  any  other  form  of  literature 
with  which  I  am  acquainted. 

She  was  not  long  in  returning,  however,  though  she 
came  back  with  the  same  dignified  motion. 

**  There  is  nothing  really  worth  either  showing  or  con- 
cealing," she  said  to  Mr  Percivale,  as  she  handed  him 
the  portfolio,  to  help  himself,  as  it  were.  She  then 
turned  away,  as  if  a  little  feeling  of  shyness  had  como 


178  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

over  her,  and  began  to  look  for  something  to  do  about 
Connie.  I  could  see  that,  although  she  had  hith(irlo 
been  almost  indifferent  about  the  merit  of  her  drawings, 
she  had  a  new-born  wish  that  they  might  not  appear 
altogether  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  Mr  Percivale, 
And  I  saw,  too,  that  Connie's  wide  eyes  were  taking  in 
everything.  It  was  wonderful  how  Connie's  deprivations 
had  made  her  keen  in  observing.  Now  she  hastened  to 
her  sister's  rescue  even  from  such  a  slight  inconvenience 
as  the  shadow  of  embarrassment  in  which  she  found  her- 
self— perhaps  from  having  seen  some  unusual  expression 
in  my  face,  of  which  I  was  unconscious,  though  conscious 
enough  of  what  might  have  occasioned  such. 

"Give  me  you  hand,  Wynnie,"  said  Connie,  "and  help 
me  to  move  one  inch  further  on  my  side.  I  may  move 
just  that  much  on  my  side,  mayn't  I,  papa?" 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not,  my  dear,  if  you  can  do 
without  it,"  I  answered ;  for  the  doctor's  injunctions  had 
been  strong. 

"  Very  well,  papa ;  but  I  feel  as  if  it  would  do  me 
good." 

"  Mr  Turner  will  be  here  next  week,  you  know ;  and 
you  must  try  to  stick  to  his  rules  till  he  comes  to  see  yoit 
Perhaps  he  will  let  you  relax  a  little." 

Connie  smiled  very  sweetly  and  lay  still,  while  Wynnie 
Stood  holding  her  hand. 

Meantime  Mr  Percivale,  having  received  the  drawings, 
had  walked  away  with  them  towards  what  they  called  the 
storm  tower — a  little  building  standing  square  to  the 
points  of  the  compass,  from  little  windows  in  which  the 


MR    PERCIVALE.  279 


coastguard  could  see  with  their  telescopes  along  the  coast 
on  both  sides  and  far  out  to  sea.  This  tower  stood  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  but  behind  it  there  was  a  steep 
descent,  to  reach  which  apparently  he  went  round  the 
tower  and  disappeared.  He  evidently  wanted  to  make 
a  leisurely  examination  of  the  drawings — somewhat  for- 
midable for  Wynnie,  I  thought.  At  the  same  time,  it 
impressed  me  favourably  with  regard  to  the  young  man 
that  he  was  not  inclined  to  pay  a  set  of  stupid  and  untrue 
compliments  the  instant  the  portfolio  was  opened,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  in  order  to  speak  what  was  real  about 
them,  would  take  the  trouble  to  make  hirftself'in  some 
adequate  measure  acquainted  with  them.  I  therefore,  to 
Wynnie's  relief,  I  fear,  strolled  after  him,  seeing  no  harm 
in  taking  a  peep  at  his  person  while  he  was  taking  a 
peep  at  my  daughter's  mind.  I  went  round  the  tower 
to  the  other  side,  and  there  saw  him  at  a  httle  dis- 
tance below  me,  but  further  out  on  a  great  rock  that 
overhung  the  sea,  connected  with  the  chff  by  a  long 
narrow  isthmus,  a  few  yards  lower  than  the  cliff  itself, 
only  just  broad  enough  to  admit  of  a  footpath  along  its 
top,  and  on  one  side  going  sheer  down  with  a  smooth 
hard  rock-face  to  the  sands  below.  The  other  side  was 
less  steep,  and  had  some  grass  upon  it  But  the  path 
was  too  narrow,  and  the  precipice  too  steep,  for  me  to 
trust  mj  head  with  the  business  of  guiding  my  feet  along 
it.  So  I  stood  and  saw  him  from  the  mainland — saw 
his  head  at  least  bent  over  the  drawings ;  saw  how  slowly 
he  turned  froti  one  to  the  other  ;  saw  how,  after  having 
gone  over  them  once,  he  turned  to  the  beginning  and 


28o  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

went  over  them  again,  even  more  slowly  than  before ; 
saw  how  he  tm-ned  the  third  time  to  the  first.  Then, 
getting  tired,  I  went  back  to  the  group  on  the  down ; 
caught  sight  of  Charlie  and  Harry  turning  heels  ovfr 
head  down  the  slope  toward  the  house  ;  found  that  my 
wife  had  gone  home — in  fact,  that  only  Connie  and 
Wynnie  were  left.  The  sun  had  disappeared  under  a 
cloud,  and  the  sea  had  turned  a  httle  slaty ;  the  yellow 
flowers  in  the  short  down-grass  no  longer  caught  the  eye 
with  their  gold,  and  the  wind  that  bent  their  tops  had 
just  the  suspicion  of  an  edge  m  it.  And  Wynnie's  face 
looked  a  little  cloudy  too,  I  thought,  and  I  feared  that 
it  was  my  fault.  I  fancied  there  was  just  a  tinge  of 
beseeching  in  Connie's  eye  as  I  looked  at  her,  thinking 
there  might  be  danger  for  her  in  the  sunlessness  of  the 
wind.  But  I  do  not  know  that  all  this,  "even  the  cloud- 
ing of  the  sun,  may  not  have  come  out  of  my  own  mind, 
the  result  of  my  not  being  quite  satisfied  with  myself  be- 
cause of  the  mood  I  had  been  in.  My  feeling  had  altered 
considerably  in  the  meantime. 

"  Run,  Wynnie,  and  ask  Mr  Percivale,  with  my  com 
pliments,  to  come  and  lunch  with  us,"  I  said — more  to 
let  her  see  I  was  not  displeased,  however  I  might  have 
looked,  than  for  any  other  reason.  She  went — sedately 
as  before. 

Almost  as  soon  as  sne  was  gone,  I  saw  that  I  had  put 
her  in  a.  difficulty.  For  I  had  discovered,  very  soon 
after  coming  into  these  parts,  that  her  head  was  no  more 
steady  than  my  own  upon  high  places,  lor  she  had  never 
been  used  to  su:h  in  our  own  level  country,  except,  m* 


MR    PEKCIVALE.  S8l 


deei,  on  the  stair  that  led  down  to  the  old  quarry  and 
the  well,  where,  I  can  remember  now,  she  always  laid 
her  hand  on  the  balustrade  with  some  degree  of  tremor, 
although  she  had  been  in  the  way  of  going  up  and  down 
from  childhood.  But  if  she  could  not  cross  that  narrow 
and  really  dangerous  isthmus,  still  less  could  she  call  to 
a  man  she  had  never  seen  but  once,  across  the  interven- 
ing chasm.  I  therefore  set  off  after  her,  leaving  Connie 
lying  there  in  loneliness,  between  the  sea  and  the  sky.  But 
when  I  got  to  the  other  side  of  the  little  tower,  instead 
of  finding  her  standing  hesitating  on  the  brink  of  action, 
there  she  was  on  the  rock  beyond.  Mr  Percivale  had 
risen,  and  was  evidently  giving  an  answer  to  my  invita- 
tion ;  at  least,  the  next  moment  she  turned  to  come  back, 
and  he  followed.  I  stood  trembling  almost  to  see  her 
cross  the  knife-back  of  that  ledge.  If  I  had  not  been 
almost  fascinated,  I  should  have  turned  and  left  them  to 
come  together,  lest  the  evil  fancy  should  cross  her  mind 
that  I  was  watching  them,  for  it  was  one  thing  to  watch 
him  with  her  drawings,  and  quite  another  to  watch  him 
with  herselC  But  I  stood  and  stared  as  she  crossed. 
In  the  middle  of  the  path,  however — up  to  which  point 
she  had  been  walking  with  perfect  steadiness  and  com* 
posure — she  lifted  her  eyes — by  what  influence  I  cannot 
tell — saw  me,  looked  as  if  she  saw  a  ghost,  half-lifted 
her  arms,  swayed  as  if  she  would  fall,  and,  indeed,  was 
falling  over  the  precipice,  when  Percivale,  who  was  close 
behind  her,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  almost  too  late  for 
both  of  them.  So  nearly  down  was  she  already,  that  her 
weight  bent  him  over  the  rocky  side  till  it  seemed  at 


282  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

if  he  must  yield,  or  his  body  snap.  For  he  bent  from 
the  waist,  and  looked  as  if  his  feet  only  kept  a  hold 
on  the  ground.  It  was  all  over  in  a  moment,  but  in  that 
moment  it  made  a  sun-picture  on  my  brain,  which  re- 
turns ever  and  again,  with  such  vivid  agony  that  I  cannot 
hope  to  get  rid  of  it  till  I  get  rid  of  the  brain  itself  in 
which  lies  the  impress.  In  another  moment  ihey  were 
at  my  side — she  with  a  wan,  terrified  smile,  he  in  a  ruddy 
alarm.  I  was  unable  to  speak,  and  could  only,  with 
trembling  steps,  lead  the  w^ay  from  the  dreadful  spot 
I  reproached  myself  afiervvards  for  my  want  of  faith  in 
God;  but  I  had  not  had  time  to  correct  myself  yeL 
Without  a  word  on  their  side  either,  they  followed  me. 
Before  we  reached  Connie,  I  recovered  myself  sufficiently 
to  say,  "Not  a  word  to  Connie,''  and  they  understood 
me.  I  told  Wynnie  to  run  to  the  house,  and  send 
Walter  to  help  me  to  carry  Connie  home.  She  went, 
and,  until  Waller  came,  I  talked  to  Mr  Percivale  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  And  what  made  me  feel  yet 
more  friendly  towards  him  was,  that  he  did  not  do  as 
some  young  men  wishing  to  ingratiate  themselves  would 
have  done  :  he  did  not  offer  to  help  me  to  carry  Connie 
home,  I  saw  that  the  offer  rose  in  his  mind,  and  that 
he  repressed  it.  He  understood  that  I  must  consider 
such  a  permission  as  a  privilege  not  to*  be  accorded  to 
the  acquaintance  ot  a  day;  that  1  must  know  him  better 
'Defore  1  could  allow  the  weight  of  my  child  to  rest  on 
bis  strength.  I  was  even  grateful  to  him  for  this 
knowledg  *  of  human  nature.  But  he  responded  cor- 
dially  to  my  invitation   to  lunch  with  us,  and  walkeil 


MR    PERCIVALE.  283 


by  my  side  as  Walter  and  I  bore  the  precious  burden 
home 

During  our  meal,  he  made  himself  quite  agreeable , 
talked  well  on  the  topics  of  the  day,  not  altogether  as  a 
man  who  had  made  up  his  mind,  but  not  the  less,  rather 
the  more,  as  a  man  who  had  thought  about  them,  and 
one  who  did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  come  to  a  conclusion 
as  most  people  do — or  possibly  as  not  feeling  the  ne- 
cessity of  coming  to  a  conclusion,  and  therefore  prefer- 
ring to  allow  the  conclusion  to  grow  instead  of  construct- 
ing one  for  immediate  use.  This  I  rather  liked  than 
otherwise.  His  behaviour,  I  need  hardly  say,  after  what 
I  have  told  of  him  already,  was  entirely  that  of  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  his  education  was  good.  But  what  I  did  not 
like  was,  that  as  often  as  the  conversation  made  a  bend 
in  the  direction  of  religious  matters,  he  was  sure  to  bend 
it  away  in  some  other  direction  as  soon  as  ever  he  laid 
his  next  hold  upon  it.  This,  however,  might  have 
various  reasons  to  account  for  it,  and  I  would  wait. 

After  lunch,  as  we  rose  from  the  table,  he  took  Wyn- 
nie's  portfolio  from  the  side-table  where  he  had  laid  it, 
and  with  no  more  than  a  bow  and  thanks  returned  it 
to  her.  She,  I  thought,  looked  a  little  disappointed, 
though  she  said  as  lightly  as  she  could — 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  found  anything  worthy  of 
criticism  in  my  poor  attempts,  Mr  Percivale?'* 

*'  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  them  if  you  would  like  to  hear  the  im- 
pression they  have  made  upon  me."  he  rephed,  holding 
out  hir>  hand  to  take  the  portfolio  again. 


.284  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  return- 
ing it,  "  for  I  have  had  no  one  to  help  me  sinte  I  left 
school,  except  a  book  called  *  Modem  Painters,'  which 
r  think  has  the  most  beautiful  things  in  it  I  ever  read, 
but  which  I  lay  down  every  now  and  then  with  a  kind 
of  despair,  as  if  I  never  could  do  anything  worth  doing. 
How  long  the  next  volume  is  in  coming  !  Do  you  know 
tlie  author,  Mr  Percivalel" 

**  I  wish  I  did.  He  has  given  me  much  help.  I  do 
not  say  I  can  agree  with  everything  he  writes  ;  but  when 
I  do  not,  I  have  such  a  respect  for  him  that  I  always 
feel  as  if  he  must  be  right  whether  he  seems  to 
me  to  be  right  or  not.  And  if  he  is  severe,  it 
is  with  the  severity  of  love  that  will  speak  only  the 
truth." 

This  last  speech  fell  on  my  ear  like  the  tone  of  a 
church  bell.  **  That  will  do,  my  friend,"  thought  I.  But 
1  said  nothing  to  interrupt. 

By  this  time  he  had  laid  the  portfolio  open  on  the 
side-table,  and  placed  a  chair  in  front  of  it  for  my 
(laughter.  Then  seating  himself  by  her  side,  but  with- 
out the  least  approach  to  familiarity,  he  began  to  talk  to 
her  about  her  drawings,  praising,  in  general,  the  feeling, 
but  finding  fault  with  the  want  of  nicety  in  the  execution 
—at  least  so  it  appeared  to  me  from  what  I  could  under- 
stand of  the  conversation. 

**  But,"  said  my  daughter,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  if  you 
get  the  feeling  right,  that  is  the  main  thing." 

"  No  doubt,"  returned  Mr  Percivale  ;  "  so  much  the 
main  thins  that  any  imperfection  or  coarseness  or  un- 


MR    PERCIVALB.  ftS: 


truth  which  interferes  with  it  becomes  of  the  greatest 
consequence." 

**  But  can  it  really  interfere  with  the  feeling  t  ** 

•*  Perhaps  not  with  most  people,  simply  because  most 
people  observe  so  badly  that  their  recollections  of  nature 
are  all  blurred  and  blotted  and  indistinct,  and  therefore 
the  imperfections  we  are  speaking  of  do  not  affect  them. 
But  with  the  more  cultivated  it  is  otherwise.  It  is  for 
them  you  ought  to  work,  for  you  do  not  thereby  lose  the 
others.  Besides,  the  feeling  is  always  intensified  by  the 
finish,  for  that  belongs  to  the  feeling  too,  and  must,  J 
should  think,  have  some  influence  even  where  it  is  not 
noted." 

"  But  is  it  not  a  hopeless  thing  to  attempt  the  finish 
of  nature  ? " 

"  Not  at  ail ;  to  the  degree,  that  is,  in  which  you  can 
represent  anything  else  of  nature.  But  in  this  drawing 
now  you  have  no  representative  of,  nothing  to  hint  at  or 
recall  the  feeling  of  the  exquisiteness  of  nature's  finish. 
Why  should  you  not  at  least  have  drawn  a  true  horizon- 
line  there  I  Has  the  absolute  truth  of  the  meeting  oi 
sea  and  sky  notliing  to  do  with  the  feeling  which  such  a 
landscape  produces  ?  I  should  have  thought  you  would 
have  learned  that,  if  anything,  from  Mr  Ruskin." 

Mr  Percivale  spoke  earnestly.  VVynnie,  either  from 
disappointment  or  despair,  probably  from  a  mixture  of 
both,  apparently  fancied  that,  or  rather  felt  as  if,  he  was 
tcolding  her,  and  got  cross.  This  was  anything  but 
dignified,  especially  with  a  stranger,  and  one  who  was 
doing  his  best  to  help  her.     And  yet  somehow,  I  must 


•86  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

with  shame  confess,  I  was  not  ahogether  sorry  to  see  it. 
In  fact,  my  reader,  I  must  just  uncover  my  sin,  ana  say 
that  I  felt  a  little  jealous  of  Mr  Percivale.  The  negative 
reason  was  that  I  had  not  yet  learned  to  love  him.  The 
only  cure  for  jealousy  is  love.  But  I  was  ashamed  too 
of  Wynnie's  behaving  so  childishly.  Her  face  flushed, 
the  tears  came  in  her  eyes,  and  she  rose,  saying  with  a 
little  choke  in  her  voice — 

"I  see  it's  no  use  trjdng.  I  won't  intrude  any  more 
into  things  I  am  incapable  of.  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you,  Mr  Percivale,  for  showing  me  how  presumptuous  I 
have  been." 

The  painter  rose  as  she  rose,  looking  greatly  con- 
cerned. But  he  did  not  attempt  to  answer  her.  Indeed 
she  gave  him  no  time.  He  could  only  spring  after  her 
to  open  the  door  for  her.  A  more  than  respectful  bow 
as  she  left  the  room  was  his  only  adieu.  But  when  he 
turned  his  face  again  towards  me,  it  expressed  even  a 
degree  of  consternation. 

"I  fear,*'  he  said,  approaching  me  with  an  almost 
military  step,  much  at  variance  with  the  shadow  upon 
his  countenance,  "  I  fear  I  have  been  rude  to  Miss 
Walton,  but  nothing  was  farther  " 

•*  You  mistake  entirely,  Mr  Percivale.  I  heard  all  you 
were  saying,  and  you  were  not  in  the  least  rude.  On  the 
contrary,  I  consider  you  were  very  kind  to  take  the 
trouble  with  her  you  did.  Allow  me  to  make  the  apology 
for  my  daughter  which  I  am  sure  she  will  wish  made 
when  she  recovers  from  the  di.sappointmcnt  of  A.ulmg 
more  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her  favourite  pur^uii  than 


MR    PERCIVALE.  i     7 


she  had  previously  supposed.  She  is  only  too  ready  to 
lose  heart,  and  she  paid  too  little  attention  to  your  ip- 
piobation  and  too  much,  in  proportion,  I  mean,  to  your 
— criticism.  She  felt  discouraged  and  lost  her  temper, 
liut  more  with  herself  and  her  poor  attempts,  I  venture 
to  assure  you,  than  with  your  remarks  upon  them.  She 
is  too  much  given  to  despising  her  own  efforts." 

**  But  I  must  have  been  to  blame  if  I  caused  any  such 
feeling  with  regard  to  those  drawings,  for  I  assure  you 
they  contain  great  promise." 

*'  1  am  glad  you  think  so.  That  I  should  mysolf  be 
of  the  same  opinion  can  be  of  no  ronseouence." 

"  Miss  Walton  at  least  sees  what  ought  to  be  repre- 
sented. All  she  needs  is  greater  severity  in  the  quality 
of  representation.  And  that  would  have  grown  without 
any  remark  from  onlookers.  Only  a  friendly  criticism  is 
sometimes  a  great  help.  It  opens  the  eyes  a  little 
sooner  than  they  would  have  opened  of  themselves. 
And  time,"  he  added,  with  a  half-sigh  and  with  an 
appeal  m  his  tone,  as  if  he  would  justify  himself  to  my 
conscience,  *'  is  half  the  battle  in  this  world.  It  is  over 
so  soon." 

"  No  sooner  than  it  ought  to  be,**  I  rejoined. 

**  So  it  may  appear  to  you,"  he  returned  ;.  "  for  you,  I 
jnesume  to  conjecture,  have  worked  hard  and  done  much. 
1  may  or  may  not  have  worked  hard — sometimes  I  think, 
i  have,  sometimes  I  think  I  have  not — but  I  certainly 
have  done  little.  Here  I  am  nearly  thirty,  and  iiave 
made  no  mark  on  the  world  yet." 

**  1  don't  know  that  that  is  of  so  much  conseauencc," 


288  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  said.  "  I  have  never  hoped  for  more  than  to  rub  out 
a  few  of  the  marks  already  made." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  riglit,"  he  returned.  "  Every  man 
has  something  he  can  do,  and  more,  I  suppose,  that  he 
can't  do.  But  I  have  no  right  to  turn  a  visit  into  a  visit- 
ation. Will  you  please  tell  Miss  Walton  that  I  am  very 
sorry  I  presumed  on  the  privileges  of  a  drawing-master, 
and  gave  her  pain.  It  was  so  far  from  my  intention  that 
]t  will  be  a  lesson  to  me  for  the  future." 

With  these  words  he  took  his  leave,  and  I  could  not 
help  being  greatly  pleased  ^ both  with  them  and  with 
his  bearing.     He  was  clearly  anything  but  a  commoa 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE   SHADOW    OF    DEATH. 

'HEN  Wynnie  appeared  at  dinner  she  lookcU 
ashamed  of  herself,  and  her  face  betrayed 
II  that  she  had  been  crying.  But  I  said  no- 
thing, for  I  had  confidence  that  all  she 
needed  was  time  to  come  to  herself,  that  the  voice  that 
speaks  louder  than  any  thunder  might  make  its  stillness 
heard.  And  when  I  came  home  from  my  walk  the  next 
morning  I  found  Mr  Percivale  once  more  in  the  group 
about  Connie,  and  evidently  on  the  best  possible  terms 
with  all.  The  same  afternoon  Wynnie  went  out  sketch- 
ing with  Dora.  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  had  made  some 
sort  of  apology  to  Mr  Percivale ;  but  I  did  not  make 
the  slightest  attempt  to  discover  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them,  for  though  it  is  of  all  things  desirable  that 
children  should  be  quite  open  with  their  parents,  I  was 

most  anxious  to  lay  upon  them  no  burden  of  obligation. 

t 


ago  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

For   such    burden   lies   against  the  cloor  of  utterance, 
and  makes  it  the  more  difficult  to  open.     It  paralyses 
the  speech  of  the  soul.     What  1  desired  was,  that  they 
should  tiiist  me  so  that  faith  should  overcome  all  dif- 
ficulty that  might  lie  in  the  way  of  their  being  open  with 
me.     That  end  is  not  to  be  gained  by  any  urging  of  ad- 
monition.    Against  such,  growing  years  at  least,  if  no- 
thing else,  will  bring  a  strong  reaction.     Nor  even,  if  so 
gained,  would  the  gain  be  at  all  of  the  right  sort.     The 
openness  would  not  be  faith.     Besides,  a  parent  must 
respect  the  spiritual  person  of  his  child,  and  approach  it 
with  reverence,  for  that  too  looks  the  Father  in  the  face, 
and  has  an  audience  with  him  into  which  no  earthly 
parent  can  enter  even  if  he  dared  to  desire  it.     There- 
fore I  trusted  my  child.      And  when   I  saw  that  she 
looked  at  me  a  little  shyly  when  we  next  met,  I  only 
sought  to  show  her  the  more  tenderness  and  confidence, 
telling  her  all  about  my  plans  with  the  bells,  and  my 
talks  with  the  smith  and  Mrs  Coombes.     She  listened 
with  just  such  interest  as  I  had  always  been  accustomed 
to  see  in  her,  asking  such  questions,  and  making  such 
remarks  as  I  might  have  expected,  but  I  still  ielt  that 
there  was  the  thread  of  a  little  uneasiness  through  the 
web  of  our  intercourse, — such  a  thread  of  a  false  colour 
as  one  may  sometimes  find  wandering  through  the  laboui 
of  the  loom,  and  seek  with  pains  to  draw  from  the  woven 
stuff.     But  it  was  for  Wynnie  to  take  it  out,  not  for  me 
And  she  did  not  leave  it  long.     For  as  she  bade  m<». 
good   night  in  my  study,  she  said  suddenly,  yet  with 
hesitating"  openness. 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  29! 

"Papa,  I  told  Mr  Percivale  that  I  was  sorry  I  had 
behaved  so  badly  about  the  drawings.'* 

"  You  did  right,  my  child,"  I  replied.  At  the  same 
moment  a  pang  of  anxiety  passed  through  me  lest  undei 
the  influence  of  her  repentance  she  should  have  said 
anything  more  than  becoming.  But  I  banished  the 
doubt  instantly  as  faithlessness  in  the  womanly  instincts 
of  my  child.  For  we  men  are  always  so  ready  and 
anxious  to  keep  women  right,  Hke  the  wretched  creature, 
Laertes,  in  Hamlet^  who  reads  his  sister  such  a  lesson  on 
\er  maidenly  duties,  but  declines  almost  with  contempt 
to  listen  to  a  word  from  her  as  to  any  co-relative  obliga- 
tion on  his  side  ! 

And  here  I  anay  remark  in  regard  to  one  of  the  veyed 
questions  of  the  day-  -the  rights  of  women — that  what 
^omen  demand  it  is  not  for  men  to  withhold.  It  is  not 
their  business  to  lay  down  the  law  for  women.  That 
women  must  lay  down  for  themselves.  I  confess  that, 
although  I  must  herein  seem  to  many  of  my  readers  old- 
fashioned  and  conservative,  I  should  not  hke  to  see  any 
woman  I  cared  much  for  either  in  parHament  or  in  an 
anatomical  class-room  ;  but  on  the  other  hand  I  feel 
that  women  must  be  left  free  to  settle  that  matter.  If  it 
is  not  good,  good  women  will  find  it  out  and  recoil  fron^ 
it  If  it  is  good,  then  God  give  them,  good  speed.  One 
thing  they  have -6.  right  to — afar  wider  and  more  valuable 
education  than  they  have  been  in  the  way  of  receiving. 
AVhen  the  mothers  are  well  taught  the  generations  will 
grow  in  knowledge  at  a  fourfold  rate.  But  still  the 
teaching  of  life  is  better  than  ar  the  schools,  and  com- 


tg2  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

mon-sense  than  all  learning.  This  common-sense  is  a 
rare  gift,  scantier  in  none  than  in  those  who  lay  claim  to 
it  on  the  ground  of  following  commonplace,  worldly, 
and  prudential  maxims.  But  I  must  return  to  my 
Wynnie. 

"  And  what  did  Mr  Percivale  say  VI  resumed,  for 
she  was  silent. 

"  He  took  the  blame  all  on  himself,  papa.** 

**  Like  a  gentleman,"  I  said. 

"  But  I  could  not  leave  it  so,  you  know,  papa,  because 
that  was  not  the  truth." 

"WelU" 

•*  I  told  him  that  I  had  lost  my  temper  from  disap- 
pointment ;  that  I  had  thought  I  did  not  care  for  my  draw 
ings  because  I  was  so  far  from  satisfied  with  them,  but 
when  he  made  me  feel  that  they  were  worth  nothing,  then 
I  found  from  the  vexation  I  felt  that  I  had  cared  for 
them.  But  I  do  think,  papa,  I  was  more  ashamed  of 
having  shown  them,  and  vexed  with  myself,  than  cross 
with  him.     But  I  was  very  silly.** 

"  Well,  and  what  did  he  say  T 

**  He  began  to  praise  them  then.  But  you  know  I 
could  not  take  much  of  that,  for  what  could  he  dol" 

"  You  might  give  him  credit  for  a  little  honesty,  at 
least." 

"Yes,  but  things  maybe  true  in  a  way,  you  know, 
and  not  mean  much.'* 

"  He  seems  to  have  succeeded  in  reconciling  you  to 
the  prosecution  of  your  efforts,  however ;  for  I  saw  you 
go  out  with  your  sketching  apparatus  this  afternoon.* 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  «93 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  shyly.  **  He  was  so  kind,  that 
somehow  I  got  heart  to  try  again.  He's  very  nice^ 
isn't  he  ?" 

My  answer  was  not  quite  ready. 

"  Don't  you  hke  him,  papa  V* 

"Well — I  like  him — yes.  But  we  must  not  be  in  haste 
with  our  judgments,  you  know.  I  have  had  very  little 
opportunity  of  seeing  into  him.  There  is  much  in  him 
that  I  like,  but " 

"  But  what,  please,  papa  V* 

**  To  tell  the  truth  then,  Wynnie,  for  I  can  speak  my 
mind  to  you,  my  child,  there  is  a  certain  shyness  of  ap- 
proaching the  subject  of  religion;  so  that  I  have  my 
fears  lest  he  should  belong  to  any  of  these  new  schools 
of  a  fragmentary  philosophy  which  acknowledge  no  source 
of  truth  but  the  testimony  of  the  senses  and  the  deduc- 
tifms  made  therefrom  by  the  intellect." 

"  But  is  not  that  a  hasty  conclusion,  papa  1" 

"  That  is  a  hasty  question,  my  dear.  I  have  come  to 
no  conclusion.  I  was  only  speakirg  confidentially  about 
iny  fears." 

"  Perhaps,  papa,  it  *s  only  that  he  's  not  sure  enough, 
and  is  afraid  of  appearing  to  profess  more  than  he  be- 
lieves. I  'm  sure,  if  that 's  it,  I  have  the  greatest  sym- 
pathy with  him.** 

I  looked  at  her,  and  saw  the  tears  gathering  fast  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Pray  to  God  on  the  chance  of  his  hearing  you,  my 
darling,  and  go  to  sleep,"  I  said.  "  I  will  not  think  hardly 
of  you  because  you  cannot  be  so  sure  as  I  am.     How 


294  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

could  you  be]  You  have  not  had  my  experience.  Per- 
haps you  are  right  about  Mr  Percivale  too.  But  if 
would  be  an  awkward  thing  to  get  intimate  with  him,  you 
know,  and  then  find  out  that  we  did  not  like  him  after 
all.  You  couldn't  like  a  man  much,  could  you,  who  did 
not  believe  in  anything  greater  than  himself,  anything 
marvellous,  grand,  beyond  our  understanding — who 
thought  that  he  had  come  out  of  the  dirt  and  was  going 
back  to  the  dirt?" 

"  I  could,  papa,  if  he  tried  to  do  his  duty  notwith- 
standing— for  I  am  sure  I  couldn't  I  should  cry  myself 
to  death." 

"  You  are  right,  my  child.  I  should  honour  him  too. 
But  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  him.  For  he  would  be 
so  disappointed  in  himself." 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  was  the  best  answer  to 
make,  but  I  had  little  time  to  think. 

•*  But  you  don't  know  that  he 's  like  that" 

"  I  do  not,  my  dear.  And  more,  I  will  not  associate 
tlie  idea  with  him  till  I  know  for  certain.  We  will  leave 
it  to  ignorant  old  ladies  who  lay  claim  to  an  instinct  for 
theology  to  jump  at  conclusions,  and  reserve  ours — as 
even  such  a  man  as  we  have  been  supposing  might  well 
teach  us — till  we  have  sufficient  facts  from  which  to 
draw  them.     Now  go  to  bed,  my  child. 

**  Good-night  then,  dear  papa,"  she  said,  and  left  me 
with  a  kiss. 

I  was  not  altogether  comfortable  after  this  conversa- 
tion. I  had  tried  to  be  fair  to  the  young  man  both  in 
word  and  thought,  but  I  could  not  relish  the  idea  of  my 


THE    SHADOW    OP    DKATH.  29» 

daughter  falling  in  love  with  him,  which  looked  likely 
enough,  before  I  knew  more  about  him,  and  found  that 
more  good  and  hope-giving.  There  was  but  one  rational 
thing  left  to  do,  and  that  was  to  cast  my  care  on  him 
that  careth  for  us— on  the  Father  who  loved  my  child 
more  than  even  I  could  love  her — and  loved  the  young 
man  too,  and  regarded  my  anxiety,  and  would  take  its 
cause  upon  himselC  After  I  had  lifted  up  my  heart  to 
him  I  was  at  ease,  read  a  canto  of  Dante's  Paradise, 
and  then  went  to  bed.  The  prematurity  of  a  conver- 
sation with  my  wife,  in  which  I  found  that  she  was 
very  favourably  impressed  with  Mr  Percivale,  must  be 
pardoned  to  the  forecasting  hearts  of  fathers  and 
mothers. 

As  I  went  out  for  my  walk  the  next  morning,  I  caught 
sight  of  the  sexton,  with  whom  as  yet  I  had  had  but  little 
communication,  busily  trimming  some  of  the  newer  graves 
in  the  churchyard.  I  turned  in  through  the  nearer  gate, 
which  was  fashioned  Hke  a  lychgate,  with  seats  on  the 
sides  and  a  stone  table  in  the  centre,  but  had  no  roo£ 
The  one  on  the  other  side  of  the  church  was  roofed,  but 
probably  they  had  found  that  here  no  roof  could  resist 
the  sea-blasts  in  winter.  The  top  of  the  wall  where  the 
roof  should  have  rested,  was  simply  covered  with  flat 
slates  to  protect  it  from  the  rain. 

**  Good  morning,  Coombes,"  I  said. 

lie  turned  up  a  wizened,  humorous,  old  face,  the  very 
type  of  a  gravedigger's,  and  with  one  hand  leaning  on 
the  edge  of  the  green  mound,  upon  which  he  had  been 
cropping  with  a  pair  of  shears  the  too  long  and  too  thin 


296  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

grass,  touched  his  cap  with  the  other,  and  bade  me  a 
cheerful  good  morning  in  return. 

"  You  're  making  things  tidy,"  I  said. 

"  It  take  time  to  make  them  all  comfortable,  you  see, 
sir,"  he  returned,  taking  up  his  shears  again,  and  clippirg 
away  at  the  top  and  sides  of  the  mound. 

**  You  mean  the  dead,  Coombes  1 " 

**  Yes,  sir ;  to  be  sure,  sir." 

"You  don't  think  it  makes  much  difference  to  their 
comfort,  do  you,  whether  the  grass  is  one  length  or 
another  upon  their  graves?" 

"  Well  no,  sir.  I  don't  suppose  it  makes  mucA  differ- 
ence to  them.  But  it  look  more  comfortable,  you  know. 
And  I  Uke  things  to  look  comfortable.     Don't  you,  sir?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do,  Coombes.  And  you  are  quite 
right.  The  resting-place  of  the  body,  although  the 
person  it  belonged  to  be  far  away,  should  be  respected." 

"  That 's  what  I  think,  though  I  don't  get  no  credit 
for  it.  I  du  believe  the  people  hereabouts  thinks  me 
only  a  single  hair  better  than  a  Jack  Ketch.  But  I  'm 
sure  I  do  my  best  to  make  the  poor  things  comfoil- 
able.*' 

Re  seemed  unable  to  rid  his  mind  of  the  idea  tliat 
the  comfort  of  the  departed  was  dependent  upon  his 
ministrations. 

"  The  trouble  I  have  with  them  sometimes  1  There 's 
now  this  same  one  as  lies  here,  old  Jonathan  Giles.  He 
have  the  gout  so  bad  I  and  just  as  I  come  within  a  couple 
o*  mches  o'  the  right  depth,  out  come  the  edge  of  a  great 
•tone  in  the  near  comer  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.     Thinks 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  297 

I,  he  *I1  never  lie  comfortable  with  that  same  under  hia 
gouty  toe.  But  the  trouble  I  had  to  get  out  that  stone  \ 
I  du  assure  you,  sir,  it  took  me  nigh  half  the  day. — But 
this  be  one  of  the  nicest  places  to  lie  in  all  up  and  down 
the  coast — a  nice  gravelly  soil,  you  see,  sir ;  dry,  and 
warm,  and  comfortable.  Them  poor  things  as  comes  out 
of  the  sea  must  quite  enjoy  the  change,  sir." 

There  was  something  grotesque  in  the  man's  persist 
ence  in  regarding  the  objects  of  his  interest  from  this 
point  of  view.  It  was  a  curious  way  for  the  humanity 
that  was  in  him  to  find  expression ;  but  I  did  not  like  to 
It^t  him  go  on  thus.  It  was  so  much  opposed  to  all  that 
I  believed  and  felt  about  the  change  from  this  world  to 
the  next ! 

"  But,  Coombes,"  I  said,  "  why  will  you  go  on  talking 
as  if  it  made  an  atom  of  difference  to  the  dead  bodies 
where  they  were  buried  1  They  care  no  more  about  it 
than  your  old  coat  would  care  where  it  was  thrown  after 
you  had  done  with  it." 

He  turned  and  regarded  his  coat  where  it  hung  beside 
him  on  the  headstone,  of  the  same  grave  at  which  he  was 
working,-shook  his  head  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  hint 
a  doubt  whether  the  said  old  coat  would  be  altogether 
'.o  inditferent  to  its  treatment  when  it  was  past  use  as  I 
had  implied.  Then  he  turned  again  to  his  work,  and 
after  a  moment's  silence  began  to  approach  me  from 
another  side.  1  confess  he  had  the  better  of  me  before 
I  was  aware  of  what  he  was  about 

**The  church  of  Boscastle  stands  high  on  the  cliff 
You've  been  to  Boscastle.  sirT' 


MgS  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  told  him  I  had  not  yet,  but  hoped  to  go  before  the 
summer  was  over. 

"  Ah,  you  should  see  Boscastle,  sir.  It 's  a  wonderful 
place.  That 's  where  I  was  born,  sir.  When  I  was  a  by 
that  church  was  haunted,  sir.  It 's  a  damp  place,  and 
the  wind  in  it  awful.  I  du  believe  it  stand  higher  than 
any  church  in  the  country,  and  have  got  more  wind  in  it 
of  a  stormy  night  than  any  church  whatsomever.  Well 
they  said  it  was  haunted ;  and  sure  enough  every  now  and 
then  there  was  a  knocking  heard  down  below.  And  this 
always  took  place  of  a  stormy  night,  as  if  there  was  some 
poor  thing  down  in  the  low  wouts,  (vati/fs,)  and  he  wasn't 
comfortable  and  wanted  to  get  out.  Well,  one  night  it 
was  so  plain  and  so  fearful  it  was  that  the  sexton  he 
went  and  took  the  blacksmith  and  a  sliip's  carpenter 
down  to  the  harbour,  and  they  go  up  together  and  they 
hearken  all  over  the  floor,  and  they  open  one  of  the  old 
family  wouts  that  belongs  to  the  Penhaligans,  and  they 
go  down  with  a  light.  Now  the  wind  it  was  a-blowing 
all  as  usual,  only  worse  than  common.  And  there  to  be 
sure  what  do  they  see  but  the  wout  Jiaif  full  of  sea-water, 
and  nows  and  thens  a  great  spout  coming  in  through  a 
hole  in  the  rock,  for  it  was  high  water  and  a  wind  off  the 
sea,  as  I  tell  you.  And  there  was  a  cofiin  afloat  on  the 
water,  and  every  time  the  spout  come  through,  it  set  it 
knocking  agen  the  side  o'  the  wout,  and  that  was  the 
ghost.* 

**  What  a  horrible  idea ! "  I  said,  with  a  half-shuddef 
at  the  unrest  of  the  dead. 

The  old  man  uttered  a  queer  long  drawn  sound,  neithet 


THE    SHADOW    OF   DEATH.  299 

ft  chuckle,  a  crow,  nor  a  laugh,  but  a  mixture  ot  all  three, 
and  turned  himself  yet  again  to  the  work  which,  as  he 
approached  the  end  of  his  narration,  he  had  suspended, 
that  he  might  make  his  story  tell,  I  s?jppose,  by  looking 
me  in  the  face.  And  as  he  turned  he  said,  "  I  thought 
jrou  would  like  to  be  comfortable  then  as  well  as  other 
people,  sir.** 

I  could  not  help  laughing  to  see  how  the  cunning  old 
fellow  had  caught  me.  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  find 
out  how  much  of  truth  there  was  in  his  story.  From 
the  twinkle  of  his  eye  I  cannot  help  suspecting  that  if  he 
did  not  invent  the  tale,  he  embellished  it  at  least,  in 
order  to  produce  the  effect  which  he  certainly  did  pro- 
duce. Humour  was  clearly  his  predominant  disposition, 
the  reflex  of  which  was  to  be  seen,  after  a  mild  lunar 
fashion,  on  the  countenance  of  his  wife.  Neither  could  I 
help  thinking  with  pleasure,  as  I  turned  away,  how  the 
merry  little  old  man  would  enjoy  telling  his  companions 
how  he  had  posed  the  new  parson.  Very  welcome  was 
he  to  his  laugh  for  my  part.  Yet  I  gladly  left  the 
churchyard,  with  its  sunshine  above  and  its  darkness 
below.  Indeed  I  had  to  look  up  to  the  glittering  vanes 
on  the  four  pinnacles  of  the  church  tower,  dwelling  aloft 
in  the  clean  sunny  air,  to  get  the  feeling  of  the  dark 
vault,  and  the  floating  coffin,  and  the  knocking  heard  in 
the  windy  church,  out  of  my  brain.  But  the  thing  that 
did  free  me  was  the  reflection  with  what  supreme  disre- 
gard the  disincarcerated  spirit  would  look  upon  any  pos- 
sible vicissitudes  of  its  abandoned  vault  For  in  propor- 
tion as  the  body  of  man's  revelation  ceases  to  he  in 


300  THK    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

harmony  with  the  spirit  that  dwells  tl  ^rein,  it  become! 
a  vault,  a  prison,  from  which  it  must  be  freedom  to 
escape  at  length.  The  house  we  like  best  would  be  a 
prison  of  awful  sort  if  doors  and  windows  weie  built  up, 
Man's  abode,  as  age  begins  to  draw  nigh,  fares  thus. 
Age  is  in  fact  the  mason  that  builds  up  the  doors  and 
the  windows,  and  death  is  the  angel  that  breaks  the 
prison-house,  and  lets  the  captives  free.  Thus  I  got 
something  out  of  tne  sexton's  horrible  story. 

But  before  the  week  was  over,  death  came  near  in- 
deed— in  far  other  fashion  than  any  funereal  tale  could 
have  brought  it. 

One  day,  after  lunch,  I  had  retired  to  my  study,  and 
was  dozing  in  my  chair,  for  the  day  was  hot,  when  I  was 
waked  by  Charlie  rushing  into  the  room  with  the  cry, 
"Papa,  papa,  there's  a  man  drowning  I" 

I  started  up,  and  hurried  down  to  the  drawing-room 
which  looked  out  over  the  bay.  I  could  see  nothing 
but  people  running  about  on  the  edge  of  the  quiet  waves. 
No  sign  of  human  being  was  on  the  water.  But  the  one 
boat  belonging  to  the  pilot  was  coming  out  from  the  shel 
ter  of  the  lock  of  the  canal  where  it  usually  lay,  and 
my  friend  of  the  coastguard  was  running  down  from  the 
tower  on  the  cliff  with  ropes  in  his  hand.  He  would 
not  stop  the  boat  even  for  the  moment  it  would  need  to 
take  him  on  board,  but  threw  them  in  and  urged  to 
haste.  I  stood  at  the  window  and  watched.  Every 
nour  and  then  I  fancied  I  saw  something  white  heaved 
sp  on  the  swell  of  a  wave,  and  as  often  was  satisfied 
that  I  had  but  fancied  it     The  boat  seemed  to  be  float- 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  3OI 

ing  about  lazily,  if  not  idly.  The  eagerness  to  help 
made  it  appear  at  if  nothing  was  going  on.  Could  it^ 
after  all,  have  been  a  false  alarm  1  Was  there,  after  all, 
no  insensible  form  swinging  about  in  the  sweep  of  those 
waves,  with  life  gradually  oozing  awayl  Long,  long, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  I  watched,  and  still  the  boat  kept 
moving  from  place  to  place,  so  far  out  that  I  could  see 
nothing  distinctly  of  the  motions  of  its  crew.  At  length 
I  saw  something.  Yes ;  a  long  white  thing  rose  from 
the  water  slowly,  and  was  drawn  into  the  boat.  It 
rowed  swiftly  to  the  shore.  There  was  but  one  place 
fit  to  land  upon,  a  little  patch  of  sand,  nearly  covered  at. 
high  water,  but  now  lying  yellow  in  the  sun,  under  the 
window  at  which  I  stood,  and  immediately  under  our 
garden- wall.  Thither  the  boat  shot  along ;  and  there 
my  friend  of  the  coastguard,  earnest  and  sad,  was  wait- 
ing to  use,  though  without  hope,  every  appliance  so  well 
known  to  him  from  the  frequent  occurrence  of  such 
necessity  in  the  course  of  his  watchful  duties  along  miles 
and  miles  of  stormy  coast 

I  will  not  hnger  over  the  sad  details  of  vain  endeavour. 
The  honoured  head  of  a  family,  he  had  departed,  and 
left  a  good  name  behind  him.  But  even  in  the  midst  of 
my  poor  attentions  to  the  quiet,  speechless,  pale-faced 
wife,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  corpse,  I  could  not  help 
feeling  anxious  about  the  effect  on  my  Connie.  It  was 
impossible  to  keep  the  matter  concealed  from  her.  The 
undoubted  concern  on  the  faces  of  the  two  boys  was 
enough  to  reveal  that  something  serious  and  painful  had 
occurred;  while  my  wife  and  Wynn'e,  and  indeed  tho 


yy2  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


whole  household,  were  busy  in  attending  to  every  re- 
motest suggestion  of  aid  that  reached  them  from  the 
litUe  crowd  gathered  about  the  body.  At  length  it  was 
concluded,  on  the  verdict  of  the  medical  man  who  had 
bien  sent  for,  that  all  further  effort  was  useless.  Tlie 
body  was  borne  away,  and  I  led  the  poor  lady  to  her 
lodging,  and  remained  there  with  her  till  I  found  that,  as 
she  lay  on  the  sofa,  the  sleep  that  so  often  dogs  the  steps 
of  sorrow  had  at  length  thrown  its  veil  over  her  conscious- 
ness, and  put  her  for  the  time  to  rest.  There  is  a  gentle 
consolation  in  the  firmness  of  the  grasp  of  the  inevitable, 
known  but  to  those  who  are  led  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow.  I  left  her  with  her  son  and  daughter,  and  re- 
turned to  my  own  family.  They  too  were  of  course  in 
the  skirts  of  the  cloud.  Had  they  only  heard  of  the 
occurrence,  it  would  have  had  little  effect;  but  death  had 
appeared  to  them.  Every  one  but  Connie  had  seen  the 
dead  lying  there ;  and  before  the  day  was  over,  I  wished 
that  she  too  had  seen  the  dead.  For  I  found  from  what 
she  said  at  intervals,  and  from  the  shudder  that  now  and 
then  passed  through  her,  that  her  imagination  was  at 
work,  showing  but  the  horrors  that  belong  to  death ;  for 
the  enfolding  peace  that  accompanies  it  can  be  known 
but  by  sight  of  the  dead.  When  I  spoke  to  her,  she 
seemed,  and  I  suppose  for  the  time  felt  tolerably  quiet 
and  comfortable ;  but  I  could  see  that  the  words  she  had 
heard  fall  in  the  going  and  coming,  and  the  communica- 
l.jns  of  Charlie  and  Harry  to  each  other,  had  made  as 
It  were  an  excoriation  on  her  fancy,  to  which  her  con- 
■ciousness  was  ever  returning.      And   now  I   became 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  30.I 


more  grateful  than  I  had  yet  been  for  the  gift  of  that 
gipsy-child.  For  I  felt  no  anxiety  about  Connie  so  long 
as  she  was  with  her.  The  presence  even  of  her  mother 
could  not  relieve  her,  for  she  and  Wynnie  were  both 
clouded  with  the  same  awe,  and  its  reflex  in  Connie  was 
distorted  by  her  fancy.  But  the  sweet  ignorance  of  the 
baby,  which,  rightly  considered,  is  more  than  a  type  or 
symbol  of  faith,  operated  most  healingly ;  for  she  ap- 
peared in  her  sweet  merry  ways — no  baby  was  ever  more 
filled  with  the  mere  gladness  of  life  than  Connie's  baby 
— to  the  mood  in  which  they  all  were,  like  a  little  sunny 
window  in  a  cathedral  crypt,  telling  of  a  whole  universe 
of  sunshine  and  motion  beyond  those  oppressed  pillars 
and  low-groined  arches.  And  why  should  not  the  baby 
know  best]  I  believe  the  babies  do  know  best.  I 
therefore  favoured  her  having  the  child  more  than  1 
migiil  otherwise  have  thought  good  for  her,  being  anxious 
to  get  llie  dreary,  unhealthy  impression  healed  as  sool 
as  possible,  lest  it  should,  in  the  delicate  physical  condi- 
tion in  whicli  she  was,  turn  to  a  sore. 

But  my  wife  suffered  for  a  time  nearly  as  much  as 
Connie.  As  long  as  she  was  going  about  the  house  or 
attending  to  tht  wants  of  her  family,  she  was  free ;  but 
no  sooner  did  she  lay  her  head  on  the  pillow  than  in 
rushed  the  cry  of  the  sea,  fierce,  unkind,  craving  like 
a  wild  beast.  Agan.  .ind  again  she  spoke  of  it  to  me, 
for  it  came  to  her  mingled  with  the  voice  of  the  tempter, 
saying,  "  Cruel  chance^*  over  and  bver  again.  Foi 
although  the  two  words  contradict  each  other  when 
put  together  tlius,  each  ia  its  turn  would  assert  itsel£ 


304  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

A  great  part  of  the  doubt  in  the  world  comes  from 
the  fact  that  there  are  in  it  so  many  more  of  the 
impressible  as  compared  with  the  originating  minds. 
Where  the  openness  to  impression  is  balanced  by  the 
power  of  production,  the  painful  questions  of  the  world 
are  speedily  met  by  their  answers ;  where  such  is  not 
the  case,  there  are  often  long  periods  of  suffering  till 
the  child-answer  of  truth  is  brought  to  the  birth.  Hence 
the  need  for  every  impressible  mind  to  be,  by  reading 
or  speech,  held  in  living  association  with  an  original 
iMind  able  to  combat  those  suggestions  of  doubt  and 
<»ven  unbelief,  which  the  look  of  things  must  often 
occasion — a  look  which  comes  from  our  inabihty  to 
gain  other  than  fragmentary  visions  of  the  work  that  the 
Father  worketh  hitherto.  When  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
is  at  hand,  one  sign  thereof  will  be  that  all  clergymen 
will  be  more  or  less  of  the  latter  sort,  and  mere  receptive 
goodness,  no  more  than  education  and  moral  character, 
will  be  considered  sufficient  reason  for  a  man's  occupy- 
ing the  high  position  of  an  instructor  of  his  fellows. 
But  even  now  this  possession  of  original  power  is  not 
by  any  means  to  be  limited  to  those  who  make  public 
show  of  the  same.  In  many  a  humble  parish  priest 
it  shows  itself  at  the  bedside  of  the  sufifering,  or  in  the 
admonition  of  the  closet,  although  as  yet  there  are  many 
of  the  clergy  who,  so  far  from  being  able  to  console 
wisely,  are  incapable  of  understanding  the  condition  of 
those  tliat  need  consolation. 

"  It  is  all  a  fancy,  my  dear,"  I  said  to  her.     "  There 
b  nothing  more  terrible  in  this  than  in  any  other  death 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  305 

On  the  contrary,  I  can  hardly  imagine  a  less  fearful  jne. 
A  big  wave  falls  on  the  man's  head  and  stuns  him,  and 
without  further  suffering  he  floats  gently  out  on  the  sea 
of  the  unknown." 

"  But  it  is  so  terrible  for  those  left  behind  !  ** 

"  Had  you  seen  the  face  of  his  widow,  so  gentle,  so 
loving,  so  resigned  in  its  pallor,  you  would  not  have 
thought  it  so  terrible." 

But  though  she  always  seemed  satisfied,  and  no  doubt 
felt  nearly  so,  after  any  conversation  of  the  sort,  yet 
every  night  she  would  call  out  once  and  again,  "  Oli, 
that  sea,  out  there  I "  I  was  very  glad  indeed  when 
Mr  Turner,  who  had  arranged  to  spend  a  short  holiday 
with  us,  arrived. 

He  was  concerned  at  the  news  I  gave  him  of  the  shock 
both  Connie  and  her  mother  had  received,  and  coun- 
selled an  immediate  change,  that  time  might,  in  the 
absence  of  surrounding  associations,  obliterate  something 
of  the  impression  that  had  been  made.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  we  resolved  to  remove  our  household, 
for  a  short  time,  to  some  place  not  too  far  off  to  permit 
of  my  attending  to  my  duties  at  Kilkhaven,  but  out  of 
the  sight  and  sound  of  the  sea.  It  was  Thursday  wheu 
Mr  Turner  arrived,  and  he  spent  the  next  two  days  in 
inquiring  and  looking  about  for  a  suitable  spot  to  which 
"wre  might  repair  as  early  in  the  week  as  possible. 

On  the  Saturday,  the  blacksmith  was  busy  in  the  church 
tower,  and  I  went  in  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on. 

"  You  had  a  sad  business  here  the  last  week,  sir,"  he 
iaid,  after  we  had  done  talking  about  the  repairs. 


306  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 

**A  very  sad  business,  indeed/'  I  answered. 

**  It  was  a  warning  to  us  all,"  he  said. 

**  We  may  well  take  it  so,"  I  returned.  "  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  are  too  ready  to  think  of  such  remarkable 
things  only  by  themselves,  instead  of  being  roused  by 
then  to  regard  eveiything,  common  and  uncommon, 
as  ordered  by  the  same  care  and  wisdom." 

**One  of  our  local  preachers  made  a  grand  use  of  it." 

I  made  no  reply.     He  resumed. 

"  They  tell  me  you  took  no  notice  of  it  last  Sunday, 
sir." 

"  I  made  no  immediate  allusion  to  it  certainly.  But  I 
preached  under  the  influence  of  it.  And  I  thought  it 
better  that  those  who  could  reflect  on  the  matter  should 
be  thus  led  to  think  for  themselves  than  that  they  should 
be  subjected  to  the  reception  of  my  thoughts  and  feelings 
about  it ;  for  in  the  main  it  is  life  and  not  death  that  we 
have  to  preach." 

"  I  ilon't  quite  understand  you,  sir.  But  then  you 
don't  care  much  for  preaching  in  your  church." 

"  I  confess,"  I  answered,  "  that  there  has  been  much 
indiflerence  on  that  point.  I  could,  however,  mention  to 
you  many  and  grand  exceptions.  Still  there  is,  even  in 
some  of  the  best  in  the  church,  a  great  amount  of  dis- 
belief in  the  efficacy  of  preaching.  And  I  allow  that  a 
great  deal  of  what  is  called  preaching  partakes  of  its 
nature  only  in  the  remotest  degree.  But,  while  I  hold  a 
strong  opinion  of  its  value — that  is  where  it  is  genuine — 
I  venture  just  to  suggest  that  the  nature  of  the  i>rc;=chi!-iL' 
to  which  the  body  you  belong  to  has  resorted,  has  had 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  307 

Bomething  to  do,  by  way  of  a  reaction,  in  driving  the 
church  to  the  other  extreme." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that,  sir?" 

"  You  try  to  work  upon  people's  feelings  without  re- 
ference to  their  judgment.  Any  one  who  can  preach 
what  you  call  rousing  sermons,  is  considered  a  grand 
preacher  amongst  you,  and  there  is  a  great  danger  of  hii 
being  led  thereby  to  talk  more  nonsense  than  sense. 
And  then  when  the  excitement  goes  off,  there  is  no  seed 
left  in  the  soil  to  grow  in  peace,  and  they  are  always 
craving  after  more  excitement." 

"  Well,  there  is  the  preacher  to  rouse  them  up 
again." 

"  And  the  consequence  is,  that  they  continue  like 
children — the  good  ones,  I  mean — and  have  hardly  a 
chance  of  making  a  calm,  deliberate  choice  of  that  which 
is  good  ;  while  those  who  have  been  only  excited  and 
nothing  more,  are  hardened  and  seared  by  the  recurrence 
of  such  feeUng  as  is  neither  aroused  by  truth  nor  followed 
by  action." 

"  You  daren't  talk  like  that  if  you  knew  the  kind  of 
people  in  this  country  that  the  Methodists,  as  you  call 
them,  have  got  a  hold  of.  They  tell  me  it  was  like  hell 
Itself  down  in  those  mines  before  Wesley  come  among 
them." 

"  I  should  be  a  fool  or  a  bigot  to  doubt  that  the  Wes- 
lejans  have  done  incalculable  good  in  the  country.  And 
that  not  alone  to  the  people  who  never  went  to  church. 
The  whole  Church  of  England  is  under  obligations  to 
Methodism  such  as  no  words  can  overstate." 


3o8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

**  I  wonder  you  can  say  such  things  against  them 
then."  ^ 

"  Now  there  you  show  the  evil  of  thinking  too  much 
about  the  party  you  belong  to.  It  makes  a  man  touchy ; 
and  then  he  fancies,  when  another  is  merely,  it  may  be, 
analysing  a  difference,  or  insisting  strongly  on  some  great 
truth,  that  he  is  talking  against  his  party." 

*'  But  you  said,  sir,  that  our  clergy  don't  care  about 
moving  our  judgments,  only  our  feehngs.  Now  I  know 
preachers  amongst  us  of  whom  that  would  be  .anything 
but  true." 

"  Of  course  there  must  be.  But  there  is  what  I  say : 
your  party-feeling  makes  you  touchy.  A  man  can't  al- 
ways be  saying  in  the  press  of  utterance — *  Of  course 
there  are  exceptions^  That  is  understood.  I  confess  I 
do  not  know  much  about  your  clergy,  for  I  have  not  had 
the  opportunity.  But  I  do  know  this,  that  some  of  the 
best  and  most  liberal  people  I  have  ever  known  have 
belonged  to  your  community." 

"  They  do  gather  a  deal  of  money  for  good  pur-- 
poses," 

"  Yes.  But  that  was  not  what  I  meant  by  liberal.  It 
is  far  easier  to  give  money  than  to  be  generous  in  judg- 
ment. I  meant  by  liberaly  able  to  see  the  good  and 
true  in  people  that  differ  from  you — glad  *o  be  roused 
to  the  reception  of  truth  in  God's  name  from  whatever 
quarter  it  may  come,  and  not  readily  finding  offence 
wiiere  a  remark  may  have  chanced  to  be  too  sweeping 
or  unguarded.  But  I  see  that  I  ought  to  be  more  care- 
ful, for  I  have  made  you,  who  certainly  are  not  one  erf 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH,  309 

the  quarrelsome  people  I  have  been  speaking  of,  misun- 
derstand me." 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  was  hasty.  But  I  do 
think  I  am  more  ready  to  lose  my  temper  since" 

Here  he  stopped.  A  fit  of  coughing  came  on,  and, 
to  my  concern,  was  followed  by  what  I  saw  plainly 
could  be  the  result  only  of  a  rupture  in  the  lungs.  I 
insisted  on  his  dropping  his  work  and  coming  home  with 
me,  where  I  made  him  rest  the  remainder  of  the  day  and 
all  Sunday,  sending  word  to  his  mother  that  I  could  not 
let  him  go  home.  When  we  left  on  the  Monday  morn- 
vig,  we  took  him  with  us  in  the  carriage  hired  for  the 
journey,  and  set  him  down  at  his  mother's,  apparently 
no  wcirse  tiian  ususd. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

AT   THE    FARM. 

EAVING  the  younger  members  of  the  itamify 
at  home  with  the  servants,  we  set  out  for  a 
farm-house,  some  twenty  miles  off,  which 
Turner  had  discovered  for  us.  Connie  liad 
stood  the  journey  down  so  well,  and  was  now  so  muc;li 
stronger,  that  we  had  no  anxiety  about  her  so  far  as  re- 
garded the  travelling.  Through  deep  lanes  with  many 
rottages  and  here  and  there  a  very  ugly  little  chapel,  over 
steep  hills,  up  which  Turner  and  Wynnie  and  I  walked, 
and  along  sterile  moors  we  drove,  stopping  at  roadside 
inns,  and  often  beskles  to  raise  Connie  and  let  her  look 
about  upon  the  extended  prospect,  so  that  it  was  draw- 
ing towards  evening  before  we  arrived  at  our  destination. 
On  the  way  Turner  had  warned  us  that  we  were  not  to 
expect  a  beautiful  country,  although  the  place  was  with- 
in reach  of  much  that  was  remarkable.  Therefore  we 
were  not  surprised  when  we  drew  up  at  the  door  of  a 


AT    THE    FARM.  3II 

bare-looking,  shelterless  house,  with  scarcely  a  tree 
in  sight,  and  a  stretch  of  undulating  fields  on  every 
side, 

"  A  dreary  place  in  winter,  Turner,"  I  said,  after  we 
.lad  seen  Connie  comfortably  deposited  in  the  nice  white- 
curtained  parlour,  smelling  of  dried  roses  even  in  the 
height  of  the  fresh  ones,  and  had  strolled  out  while  our 
tea-dinner  was  being  got  ready  for  us. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it;  but  just  the  place  I  wanted  for 
Miss  Connie,"  he  replied.  "  We  are  high  above  the 
sea,  and  the  air  is  very  bracing,  and  not,  at  this  season, 
t'K)  cold.  A  month  later  I  should  not  on  any  account 
have  brought  her  here." 

**  I  think  even  now  there  is  a  certain  freshness  in 
the  wind  that  calls  up  a  kind  of  will  in  the  nerves  to 
meet  it** 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  wanted  for  you  all.  You 
observe  there  is  no  rasp  in  its  touch,  however.  There 
are  regions  in  this  island  of  ours  where  even  in  the  hottest 
day  in  summer  you  would  frequently  discover  a  certain 
unfriendly  edge  in  the  air,  that  would  set  you  wonder^ 
ing  whether  the  seasons  had  not  changed  since  you 
were  a  boy,  and  used  to  lie  on  the  grass  half  the  idle 
day." 

"  I  often  do  wonder  whether  it  may  not  be  so.  But  I 
always  come  to  the  conclusion  that  even  this  is  but  an 
eximple  of  the  involuntary  tendency  of  the  mind  of  man 
towards  the  ideal.  -He  forgets  all  that  comes  between 
and  divides  the  hmts  of  perfection  scattered  here  and 
there  along  the  scope  of  his  experience.     I  especially  re- 


312  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

member  one  summer  day  in  my  childhood,  which  has 
coloured  all  my  ideas  of  summer  and  bliss  and  fulfilment 
of  content  It  is  made  up  of  only  mossy  grass,  and  the 
scent  of  the  earth  and  wild  flowers,  and  hot  sun,  and  per- 
fect sky — deep  and  blue,  and  traversed  by  blinding  white 
clouds.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  five  or  six,  I 
think,  from  the  kind  of  dress  I  wore,  the  very  pearl  but- 
tons of  which,  encircled  on  their  face  with  a  ring  of  half- 
spherical  hollows,  have  their  undeniable  relation  in  my 
memory  to  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  to  the  march  of 
the  glorious  clouds,  and  the  tender  scent  of  the  rooted 
flowers ;  and,  indeed,  when  I  think  of  it,  must,  by  the 
delight  they  gave  me,  have  opened  my  mind  the  more 
to  the  enjoyment  of  the  eternal  paradise  around  me. 
What  a  thing  it  is  to  please  a  child ! " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean  perfectly,"  answered  Turner 
**  It  is  as  I  get  older  that  I  understand  what  Wordsworth 
says  about  childhood.  It  is  indeed  a  mercy  that  we 
were  not  born  grown  men,  with  what  we  consider  our 
wits  about  us.  They  are  blinding  things  those  wits  we 
gather.  I  fancy  that  the  single  thread  by  which  God 
sometimes  keeps  hold  of  a  man  is  such  an  impression 
of  his  childhood  as  that  of  which  you  have  been  speak- 
ing." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  For  conscience  is  so  near  in  all 
those  memories  to  which  you  refer  !  The  whole  sur- 
rounding of  them  is  so  at  variance  with  sin  !  A  sense  of 
purity,  not  in  himself,  for  the  child  is  not  feeling  that  he 
is  pure,  is  all  about  him  ;  and  when  afterwards  the  con- 
dition returns  upon  him,  returns  when  he  is  conscious  at 


AT    THE    FARM.  3IJ 

SO  much  that  is  evil  and  so  much  that  is  unsatisfied  in 
him,  it  brings  with  it  a  longing  after  the  high  clear  air  of 
moral  well-being." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  it  is  only  by  association 
that  nature  thus  impresses  us  ?  that  she  has  no  power  of 
meaning  these  things?" 

"  Not  at  all.  No  doubt  there  is  something  in  the  re- 
collection of  the  associations  of  childhood  to  strengthen 
the  power  of  nature  upon  us,  but  the  power  is  in  nature 
lierself,  else  it  would  be  but  a  poor  weak  thing  to  what 
It  is.  There  is  purity  and  state  in  that  sky.  There  is  a 
peace  now  in  this  wide  still  earth — not  so  very  beautiful, 
you  own — and  in  that  overhanging  blue,  which  my  heart 
cries  out  that  it  needs  and  cannot  be  well  till  it  gains — 
gains  in  the  truth,  gains  in  God,  who  is  the  power  of 
truth,  the  living  and  causing  truth.  There  is  indeed  a 
rest  that  remain eth,  a  rest  pictured  out  even  here  this 
night,  to  rouse  my  dull  heart  to  desire  it  and  follow  after 
it,  a  rest  that  consists  in  thinking  the  thoughts  of  Him 
who  is  the  Peace  because  the  Unity,  in  being  filled  with 
that  spirit  which  now  pictures  itself  forth  in  this  repose 
of  the  heavens  and  the  earth." 

"  True,"  said  Turner,  after  a  pause.  "  I  must  think 
more  about  such  things.  The  science  the  present  day 
is  going  wild  about  will  not  give  us  that  rest" 

"  No ;  but  that  rest  will  do  much  to  give  you  thai 
science.  A  man  with  this  repose  in  his  heart  will  do 
more  by  far,  other  capabilities  being  equal,  to  find  out 
♦.lie  laws  that  govern  things.     For  all  law  is  living  r«  iV* 

•*AVhat  you  have  been  saying,"  resumed  Turner;  liftei 


314  THE    SEABOARn    PARISH. 

another  pause,  "  reminds  me  much  of  one  of  Words- 
worth's poems.     I  do  not  mean  the  famous  ode." 

*'  You  mean  the  Ninth  Evening  Voluntary,  I  know — 
one  of  his  finest  and  truest  and  deepest  poems.  It 
begins,  Had  this  effulgence  disappeared'' 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  one  I  mean.  I  shall  read  it  again 
when  I  go  home.  But  you  don't  agree  with  Wordsworth, 
do  you,  about  our  having  had  an  existence  previous  to 
this?" 

He  gave  a  little  laugh  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"Not  in  the  least  But  an  opinion  held  by  such  men 
as  Plato,  Origen,  and  Wordsworth,  is  not  to  be  lauglied 
at,  Mr  Turner.  It  cannot  be  in  its  nature  absurd.  1 
migh.  h£.ve  mentioned  Shelley  as  holding  it,  too,  had  his 
opinicn  been  worth  anything." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  much  of  Shelley?** 

"  1  think  his  feeliftg  most  valuable  ;  his  opinion  neaiJy 
wortl  ess." 

*'  \\  ell,  perhaps  I  had  no  business  to  laugh  at  it ; 
but" 

"To  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  even  lean  to  it 
I  di  ike  it.  It  would  make  me  unhappy  to  think  there 
was  he  least  of  sound  argument  for  it.  But  I  respect 
the  men  who  have  held  it,  and  know  there  must  be 
scjuething  good  in  it,  else  they  could  not  have  held 
it." 

"  Are  you  able  then  to  sympathize  with  that  ode  of 
Wordsworth's]  Does  it  not  depend  for  a))  its  worth  on 
the  admission  of  this  theory 'f  " 

*'  Not  in  the  least.     Is  it  necessary  to  aamit  that  wc 


AT    THE    FARM.  315 


must  have  had  a  conscious  life  before  this  life  to  find 
meaning  in  the  words, — 

•  But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God  who  is  our  home  ? ' 

Is  not  all  the  good  in  us  his  image  1  Imperfect  and 
sinful  as  we  are,  is  not  all  the  foundation  of  our  being 
his  image  1  Is  not  the  sin  all  ours,  and  the  life  in  us 
all  God's  ?  We  cannot  be  the  creatures  of  God  without 
partaking  of  his  nature.  Every  motion  of  our  conscience, 
every  admiration  of  what  is  pure  and  noble,  is  a  sign  and 
a  result  of  this.  Is  not  every  self-accusation  a  proof  of 
the  presence  of  his  spirit  1  That  comes  not  of  ourselves 
— r-that  is  not  without  him.  These  are  the  clouds  of 
glory  we  come  trailing  from  him.  All  feelings  of  beauty 
and  peace  and  loveliness  and  right  and  goodness,  we 
trail  with  us  from  our  home.  God  is  the  only  home  of 
the  human  soul.  To  interpret  in  this  manner  what 
Wordsworth  says,  will  enable  us  to  enter  into  perfect 
sympathy  with  all  that  grandest  of  his  poems.  I  do  not 
say  this  is  what  he  meant ;  but  I  think  it  includes  what 
he  meant  by  being  greater  and  wider  than  what  he  meant. 
Nor  am  I  guilty  of  presumption  in  saying  so,  for  surely 
the  idea  tliat  we  are  born  of  God  is  a  greater  idea  than 
chat  we  have  lived  with  him  a  life  before  this  life.  But 
Wordsworth  is  not  the  rirst  among  our  religious  poets  to 
give  us  at  least  what  is  valuable  in  the  notion.  I  came 
upon  a  volu'ne  amongpt  my  friend  Shepherd's  books, 
with  which  1  had  made  no  acquaintance  before — Henry 
Vaughin's  poems.     I  brought  it  with  me,  for  it  has  fmei 


3l6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

lines,  I  almost  think,  than  any  in  George  Herbert, 
though  not  so  fine  poems  by  any  means  as  his  best. 
When  we  go  into  the  house,  I  will  read  one  of  them  to 
you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Turner.  "  I  wish  I  could  have 
such  talk  once  a  week.  The  shades  of  the  prison 
house,  you  know,  Mr  Walton,  are  always  trying  to  close 
about  us,  and  shut  out  the  vision  of  the  glories  we  have 
come  from,  as  Wordsworth  says.'* 

"  A  man,"  I  answered,  "  who  ministers  to  the  miser- 
able necessities  of  his  fellows  has  even  more  need  than 
another  to  believe  in  the  light  and  the  gladness — else  a 
poor  Job's  comforter  will  he  be.  1  don't  want  to  be 
treated  like  a  musical  snuff-box." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"No  man  can  ^rove^'  he  said,  "that  there  is  not  a 
being  inside  the  snuff-box,  existing  in  virtue  of  the  har- 
mony of  its  parts,  comfortable  when  they  go  well,  sick 
when  they  go  badly,  and  dying  when  it  is  dismembered, 
oi  even  when  it  stops." 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  No  man  can  prove  it.  But  no 
man  can  convince  a  human  being  of  it.  And  just  as 
little  can  any  one  convince  me  that  my  conscience, 
making  me  do  sometimes  what  I  don't  like,  comes  from 
a  harmonious  action  of  the  particles  of  my  brain.  But 
it  is  time  we  went  in,  for  by  the  law  of  things  in  general, 
1  being  ready  for  my  dinner,  «iy  dinner  ought  to  be 
ready  for  me.'* 

"  A  law  with  more  exceptions  than  instances,  i  lear," 
8aid  Turner. 


AT    THE    FARM.  317 


••  1  doubt  that,"  I  answered.  **  The  readiness  is  every- 
thing, and  that  we  constantly  blunder  in.  But  we  had 
better  see  whether  we  are  really  ready  for  it  by  trying 
whether  it  is  ready  for  us." 

Connie  went  to  bed  early,  as  indeed  we  all  did,  and 
she  was  rather  better  than  worse  the  next  morning.  My 
wife,  for  the  first  tmie  for  many  nights,  said  nothing  about 
the  crying  of  the  sea.  The  following  day  Turner  and  I 
set  out  to  explore  the  neighbourhood.  The  rest  re- 
mained quietly  at  home. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  high  bare  country.  The  fields 
lay  side  by  side,  parted  from  each  other  chiefly,  as  so 
often  in  Scotland,  by  stone  walls  ;  and  these  stones  being 
of  a  laminated  nature,  the  walls  were  not  unfrequently 
built  by  laying  thin  plates  on  their  edges,  which  gave  a 
neatness  to  them  not  found  in  other  parts  of  the  country 
as  far  as  I  am  aware.  In  the  middle  of  the  fields  came 
here  and  there  patches  of  yet  unreclaimed  moorland. 

Now  in  a  region  like  this,  beauty  must  be  looked  for 
below  the  surface.  There  is  a  probability  of  finding 
hollows  of  repose,  sunken  spots  of  loveliness,  hidden 
away  altogether  from  the  general  aspect  of  sternness,  or 
perhaps  sterility,  that  meets  the  eye  in  glancing  over  the 
outspread  landscape ;  just  as  in  the  natures  of  stem  men 
you  may  expect  to  find,  if  opportunity  should  be  afforded 
you,  sunny  spots  of  tender  verdure,  kept  ever  green  by 
that  very  sternness  which  is  turned  towards  the  common 
gaze — thus  existent  because  they  are  below  the  surface, 
and  not  laid  bare  to  the  sweep  of  the  cold  winds  that 
roam  the  world.     How  often  have  not  men  started  with 


3l8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

amaze  at  the  discovery  of  some  feminine  sweetness,  some 
grace  of  protection  in  the  man  whom  they  had  judged 
cold  and  hard  and  rugged,  inaccessible  to  the  more 
genial  influences  of  humanity!  It  may  be  that  such 
men  are  only  fighting  against  the  wind,  and  keep  their 
hearts  open  to  the  sun. 

1  knew  this;  and  when  Turner  and  I  set  out  that 
morning  to  explore,  I  expected  to  light  upon  some  in- 
stance of  it — some  mine  or  other  in  which  nature  had 
hidden  away  rare  jewels ;  but  I  was  not  prepared  to  find 
such  as  I  did  find.  With  our  hearts  full  of  a  glad  secret 
we  returned  home,  but  we  said  nothing  about  it,  in  order 
that  Ethelwyn  and  Wynnie  might  enjoy  the  discovery 
even  as  we  had  enjoyed  it. 

There  was  another  grand  fact  with  regard  to  the 
neighbourhood  about  which  we  judged  it  better  to  be 
silent  for  a  few  days,  that  the  inland  influences  might  be 
free  to  work.  We  were  considerably  nearer  the  ocean 
than  ray  wife  and  daughters  supposed,  for  we  had  made 
a  great  round  in  order  to  arrive  from  the  land-side.  We 
were,  however,  out  of  the  sound  of  its  waves,  which 
broke  along  the  shore,  in  this  part,  at  the  foot  of 
tremendous  cliffs.  What  cliffs  they  were  we  shall  soon 
find 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    KEEVE. 

[jOW,  my  dear  I  now,  Wynniel"  I  said,  aftef 

prayers  the  next  morning,  "you  must  come 

out  for  a  walk  as  soon  as  ever  you  can  get 

your  bonnets  on." 

•*But  we  can't  leave  Connie,  papa,"  objected  Wynnie. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can,  quite  well.     There 's  nursie  to 

look  after  her.     What  do  you  say,  Connie  i " 

For,  for  some  time  now,  Connie  had  been  able  to  get 
up  so  early,  that  it  was  no  unusual  thing  to  have  prayers 
in  her  room. 

"  I  am  entirely  independent  of  help  from  my  family," 
returned  Connie,  grandiloquently.  "  I  am  a  woman  of 
independent  means,"  she  added.  "  If  you  say  another 
word,  I  will  rise  and  leave  the  room." 

A.nd  she  made  a  movement  as  if  she  would  actually 
do  as  she  had  said.  Seized  with  an  involuntary  terror, 
I  rushr.d  towards  her,  and  the  impertinent  girl  burst  out 


320  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


laughing  in  my  face — tlirevv  herself  back  on  her  pillows, 
and  laughed  delightedly. 

"  Take  care,  papa,"  she  said.  "  I  carry  a  terri]>]e  club 
for  rebellious  people."  Then,  hej  mood  changing,  she 
added,  as  if  to  suppress  the  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes, 
**  I  am  the  queen — of  luxury  and  self-will — and  I  won't 
have  anybody  come  near  me  till  dinner-time.  I  mean 
to  enjoy  myself."* 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  we  went  out  for  our 
walk.  Ethelwyn  was  not  such  a  good  walker  as  she  had 
been ;  but  even  if  she  had  retained  the  strength  of  her 
youth,  we  should  not  have  got  on  much  the  better  for  it 
—so  often  did  she  and  Wynnie  stop  to  grub  ferns  out  of 
the  chinks  and  roots  of  the  stone  walls.  Now,  I  admire 
ferns  as  much  as  anybody — ttiat  is,  not,  I  fear,  so  much 
as  my  wife  and  daughter,  but  quite  enough  notwithstand- 
ing— but  I  do  not  quite  enjoy  being  pulled  up  like  a  fern 
at  every  turn.  • 

*•  Now,  my  dear,  what  is  the  use  of  stopping  to  torture 
that  harmless  vegetable?*  I  say,  but  say  in  vain.  **  It 
is  much  more  beautiful  where  it  is  than  it  will  be 
anywhere  where  you  can  put  it.  Besides,  you  know 
they  never  come  to  anything  wilh  you.  They  always 
die." 

Thereupon  my  wife  reminds  me  of  this  fern  and  that 
fern,  gathered  in  such  and  such  places,  and  now  in  such 
and  such  corners  of  the  garden  or  the  greenhouse,  or 
under  glass- shades  in  this  or  that  room,  of  the  very 
existence  of  which  I  am  ignorant,  whether  from  original 
inattention,  or  merely  from  forgetfulness,  I  do  not  know 


THE    KEEVE.  321 


Certainly,  out  of  their  own  place  I  do  not  care  much  fof 
them. 

At  length,  partly  by  the  inducement  I  held  out  to 
them  of  a  much  greater  variety  of  ferns  where  we  were 
bound,  I  succeeded  in  getting  them  over  the  two  miles 
in  little  more  than  two  hours.  After  passing  from  the 
lanes  into  the  fields,  our  way  led  downwards  till  we 
reached  a  very  steep  large  slope,  with  a  delightful 
southern  exposure,  and  covered  with  the  sweetest  down- 
grasses.  It  was  just  the  place  to  lie  in,  as  on  the  edge 
ri"  the  eartli,  and  look  abroad  upon  the  universe  of  air 
*id  floating  worlds. 

"  Let  us  have  a  rest  here,  Ethel,"  I  said.  "  I  am  sure 
tliis  is  much  more  delightful  than  uprooting  ferns.  What 
an  awful  thing  to  tliink  that  here  we  are  on  this  great 
round  tumbling  ball  of  a  world,  held  by  the  feet,  and 
lifting  up  the  head  into  infinite  space — without  choice 
or  wish  of  our  own — compelled  to  think  and  to  be, 
whether  we  will  or  not !  Just  God  must  know  it  to  be 
very  good,  or  he  would  not  have  taken  it  in  his  hands 
to  make  individual  lives  without  a  possible  will  of  theirs. 
He  must  be  our  Father,  or  we  are  v.Tetched  creatures — 
the  slaves  of  a  fatal  necessity !  Did  it  ever  strike  you, 
Turner,  that  each  one  of  us  stands  on  the  apex  of  the 
world?  With  a  sphere,  you  know,  it  must  be  so.  And 
thus  is  typified,  as  It  seems  to  me,  that  each  one  of  us 
must  Icok  up  for  himself  to  find  God,  and  then  look 
abroad  to  find  his  fellows." 

"  I  tliink  I  know  wl  ^t  you  riean/'  was  all  Turner*! 
reply. 


322  THE    SEAl-.OARD    PARISH. 

**  No  doubt,"  I  resumed,  "  the  apprehension  of  this 
truth  has,  in  otherwise  ill-ordered  minds,  given  rise  to 
all  sorts  of  fierce  and  grotesque  fanaticism.  But  the 
minds  which  have  thus  conceived  the  truth,  would  have 
been  immeasurably  worse  without  it:  nay,  this  truth 
aftbrds  at  last  the  only  possible  door  out  of  the  miseries 
of  their  own  chaos,  whether  inherited  or  the  result  ui 
their  own  misconduct'* 

"  What 's  that  in  the  grass  1  *'  cried  Wynnie,  in  a  tone 
of  alarm. 

I  looked  where  she  indicated,  and  saw  a  slow-worm, 
or  blind-worm,  lying  basking  in  the  sun.  I  rose  and 
went  towards  it. 

"  Here 's  your  stick,**  said  Tunier. 

"What  forf'  I  asked.  "Why  should  I  kill  it?  It  k 
perfectly  harmless,  and,  to  my  mind,  beautiful." 

I  took  it  in  my  hands,  and  brought  it  to  my  wife. 
She  gave  an  involuntary  shudder  as  it  came  near  her. 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  harniless,"  I  said,  "  though  it  has  a 
forked  tongue."  And  I  opened  its  mouth  as  I  spoke. 
**  I  do  not  think  the  serpent  form  is  essentially  ugly.** 

"  It  makes  me  feel  ugly,"  said  Wynnie. 

**  I  allow  I  do  not  quite  understand  the  mystery  of  it," 
I  said.  "  But  you  never  saw  lovelier  ornamentation  than 
these  silvery  scales,  with  all  the  neatness  of  what  you 
ladies  call  a  set  pattern,  and  none  of  the  stiffness,  for 
there  are  not  two  of  them  the  same  in  form.  And  you 
never  saw  lovelier  curves  than  this  little  patient  creature, 
which  does  not  even  try  to  get  away  from  me,  makef 
with  the  queer  long  thin  bod}  of  him." 


THE    KEEVE.  323 


"I  wonder  how  it  can  look  after  its  tail,  it  is  so  far 
off,"  said  Wynnie. 

"  It  does  though — better  than  you  ladies  look  after 
your  long  dresses.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  descended 
from  creatures  that  once  had  feet,  and  did  not  make 
a  good  use  of  them.  Perhaps  they  had  wings  even, 
and  would  not  use  them  at  all,  and  so  lost  them.  Its 
ancestors  may  have  had  poison-fangs:  it  is  innocent 
enough.  But  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  all  feet,  is  it 
not?  There  is  an  awful  significance  in  the  condem- 
nation of  the  serpent — 'On  thy  belly  shalt  thou  go, 
and  eat  dust' — But  it  is  better  to  talk  of  beautiful 
things.  My  soul  at  least  has  dropped  from  its  world 
apex.     Let  us  go  on.     Come,  wife.     Come,  Turner." 

They  did  not  seem  willing  to  rise.  But  the  glen 
drew  me.  I  rose,  and  my  wife  followed  my  example 
with  the  help  of  my  hand.  She  returned  to  the  subject, 
however,  as  we  descended  the  slope. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  in  the  course  of  ever  so  many  ages 
wings  and  feet  should  be  both  lostl"  she  said. 

**  The  most  presumptuous  thing  in  the  world  is  to 
pronounce  on  the  possible  and  the  impossible.  I  do 
not  know  what  is  possible  and  what  is  impossible.  I 
can  only  tell  a  Uttle  of  what  is  true  and  what  is  untrue. 
But  I  do  say  this,  that  between  the  condition  of  many 
decent  members  of  society  and  that  for  the  sake  of 
which  God  made  them,  there  is  a  gulf  quite  as  vast  2A 
that  between  a  serpent  and  a  bird.  I  get  peeps  now 
and  then  into  the  condition  of  my  own  heart,  which, 
for  the  moment,  make  it  seem  impossible  that  I  should 


324  THl    SEABOARD    PARISH, 

ever  rise  into  a  true  state  of  nature — that  is,  into  the 
simplicity  of  God's  will  concerning  me.  The  only  hope 
for  ourselves  and  for  others  lies  in  him— in  the  power 
the  creating  spirit  has  over  the  spirits  he  has  made.** 

By  this  time  the  descent  on  the  grass  was  getting  too 
steep  and  slippery  to  admit  of  our  continuing  to  advance 
in  that  direction.  We  turned,  therefore,  down  the 
valley  in  the  direction  of  the  sea.  It  was  but  a  narrow 
cleft,  and  narrowed  much  towards  a  deeper  cleft,  in 
which  we  now  saw  the  tops  of  trees,  and  from  which 
we  heard  the  rush  of  water.  Nor  had  we  gone  far  in 
this  direction  before  we  came  upon  a  gate  in  a  stone 
wall,  which  led  into  what  seemed  a  neglected  garden. 
We  entered,  and  found  a  path  turning  and  winding, 
among  small  trees,  and  luxuriant  ferns,  and  great  stones, 
and  fragments  of  ruins  down  towards  the  bottom  of  the 
chasm.  The  noise  of  falling  water  increased  as  we 
went  on,  and  at  length,  after  some  scrambling  and 
several  sharp  turns,  we  found  ourselves  with  a  nearly 
precipitous  wall  on  each  side,  clothed  with  shrubs  and 
ivy,  and  creeping  things  of  the  vegetable  world.  Up 
this  cleft  there  was  no  advance.  The  head  of  it  was 
a  precipice  down  which  shot  the  stream  from  the  vale 
above,  pouring  out  of  a  deep  slit  it  had  itself  cut  in  the 
fock  as  with  a  knife.  Half-way  down,  it  tumbled  into 
a  great  basin  of  hollowed  stone,  and  flowing  from  a 
chasm  in  its  side,  which  left  part  of  the  lip  of  the  basin 
standing  like  the  arch  of  a  vanished  bridge,  it  fell  into 
a  black  pool  below,  whence  it  crept  as  if  half-stunn  2d 
or  weary  down  the  sjentle  decline  of  the  ravine.     It 


THE    KEEVE.  325 


was  a  perfect  little  picture.  I,  for  my  part,  had  never 
seen  such  a  picturesque  fall  It  was  a  little  gem  of 
nature,  complete  in  effect.  The  ladies  were  full  of 
pleasure.  Wynnie,  forgetting  her  usual  reserve,  broke 
out  in  frantic  exclamations  of  delight. 

We  stood  for  a  while  regarding  the  ceaseless  pour  of 
the  water  down  the  precipice,  here  shot  slanting  in  a 
little  trough  of  the  rock,  full  of  force  and  purpose,  here 
falling  in  great  curls  of  green  and  gray,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  absolute  helplessness  and  conscious  perdition,  as 
if  sheer  to  the  centre,  but  rejoicing  the  next  moment  to 
find  itself  brought  up  boiUng  and  bubbling  in  the  basin, 
to  issue  in  the  gathered  hope  of  experience.  Then  we 
turned  down  the  stream  a  little  way,  crossed  it  by  a 
plank,  and  stood  again  to  regard  it  from  the  opposite 
side.  Small  as  the  whole  affair  was — not  more  than 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height — it  was  so  full 
of  variety  that  I  saw  it  was  all  my  memory  could  do,  if 
it  carried  away  anything  like  a  correct  picture  oi  its 
aspect  I  was  contemplating  it  fixedly,  when  a  little 
stifled  cry  from  Wynnie  made  me  start  and  look  round, 
i'ler  face  was  flushed,  yet  she  was  trying  to  look  uncon- 
cerned. 

"  I  thought  we  were  quite  alone,  papa,"  she  said;  "  but 
I  see  a  gentleman  sketching.*' 

I  looked  whither  she  indicated.  A  little  way  down,  the 
bed  of  the  ravine  widened  considerably,  and  was  no  doubt 
filled  with  water  in  rainy  weather.  Now  it  was  swampy 
—full  of  reeds  and  ivillow  bushes.  But  on  the  opposite 
nde  of  the  stream,  with  a  iiti)e  canal  from  it  going  all 


326  .     THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

around  it,  lay  a  great  flat  rectangular  stone,  not  more  than 
a  foot  above  the  level  of  the  water,  and  upon  a  camp-stool 
m  the  centre  of  this  stone  sat  a  gentleman  sketching.  1 
had  no  doubt  that  Wynnie  had  recognized  him  at  once. 
And  I  was  annoyed,  and  indeed,  angry,  to  think  that  Mr 
Percivale  had  followed  us  here.  But  while  I  regarded 
him,  he  looked  up,  rose  very  quietly,  and,  with  his  pencil 
in  his  hand,  came  -towards  us.  With  no  nearer  approach 
to  familiarity  than  a  bow,  and  no  expression  of  either 
much  pleasure  or  any  surprise,  he  said — 

"  I  have  seen  your  party  for  some  time,  Mr  Walton — 
since  you  crossed  the  stream ;  but  I  would  not  break  in 
upon  your  enjoyment  with  the  surprise  which  my  pre- 
sence here  must  cause  you." 

I  suppose  I  answered  with  a  bow  of  some  sort ;  for  I 
could  not  say  with  truth  that  I  was  glad  to  see  him.  He 
resumed,  doubtless  penetrating  my  suspicion — 

"  I  have  been  here  almost  a  week.  I  certainly  had  no 
expectation  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

This  he  said  lightly,  though  no  doubt  with  the  object 
of  clearing  himself.  And  I  was,  if  not  reassured,  yet  dis- 
armed, by  his  statement ;  for  I  could  not  believe,  from 
what  I  knew  of  him,  that  he  would  be  guilty  of  such  a 
white  lie  as  many  a  gentleman  would  have  thought  justi- 
fiable on  the  occasion.  Still,  I  suppose  he  found  me  a 
little  stiff,  for  presently  he  said — 

**  If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  return  to  my  work.* 

Then  I  felt  as  if  I  must  say  something,  for  I  had  shown 
him  no  courtesy  during  the  interview. 

•*  It  must  be  a  great  pleasure  to  carry  away  such  tali»> 


THE    KEEVE.  327 


mans  with  you — capable  of  bringing  the  place  back  to 
your  mental  vision  at  any  moment." 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  he  answered,  "I  am  a  little 
ashamed  of  being  found  sketching  here.  Such  bits  af 
scenery  are  not  of  my  favourite  studies.  But  it  is  a 
change." 

"  It  is  very  beautiful  here,"  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  con- 
travention. 

**  It  is  very  pretty,"  he  answered — "  very  lovely,  if  you 
will — not  very  beautiful^  I  think.  .  I  would  keep  that 
word  for  things  of  larger  regard.  Beauty  requires  width* 
and  here  is  none.  I  had  almost  said  this  place  was  fan- 
ciful— the  work  of  imagination  in  her  play-hours,  not  in 
her  large  serious  moods.  It  affects  me  like  the  face  of  a 
woman  only  pretty,  about  which  boys  and  guardsmen 
will  rave — to  me  not  very  interesting,  save  for  its  single 
lines." 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  sketch  the  place  V* 

**A  very  fair  question,"  he  returned,  with  a  smile. 
"  Just  because  it  is  soothing  from  the  very  absence  of 
beauty.  I  would  far  rather,  however,  if  I  were  only 
following  my  taste,  take  the  barest  bit  of  the  moor  above, 
with  a  streak  of  the  cold  sky  over  it  That  gives 
room." 

"You  would  like  to  put  a  skylark  in  it,  wouldn't 
you  ]" 

"  That  I  would  if  I  knew  how.  I  see  you  know  what 
I  mean.  But  the  mere  romantic  I  never  had  much  taste 
for ;  though  if  you  saw  the  kind  of  pictures  I  try  to  paint, 
fou  would  not  wonder  that  I  take  sketches  of  places  likf9 


328  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 

this,  while  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  do  not  care  much 
!or  them.  They  are  so  different,  and  just  t/ierefore  they 
are  good  for  me.  I  am  not  working  now.  I  am  only 
playing." 

"  With  a  view  to  working  better  afterwards,  I  have  no 
doubt,"  I  answered. 

'•You  are  right  there,  I  hope,"  was  his  quiet  leply,  as 
he  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  island. 

He  had  not  made  a  step  towards  joining  us.  He  had 
only  taken  his  hat  off  to  the  ladies.  He  wafe  gaining 
ground  upon  me  rapidly. 

"  Have  you  quarrelled  with  our  new  friend,  Harry  I** 
said  my  wife,  as  I  came  up  to  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  stone.  Turner  and  Wynnie  were 
farther  off  towards  the  foot  of  the  fall. 

*'  Not  in  the  least,"  I  answered,  slightly  outraged — I 
did  not  at  first  know  why — ^by  the  question.  "  He  is  only 
gone  to  his  work,  which  is  a  duty  belonging  both  to  the 
first  and  second  tables  of  the  law." 

"  I  hope  you  have  asked  him  to  come  home  to  our 
early  dinner,  then,"  she  rejoined. 

"  I  have  not.  1  hat  remains  for  you  to  do.  Come,  I 
will  take  you  to  him." 

Ethelwyn  rose  at  once,  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  with 
a  little  help,  soon  reached  the  table-rock.  When  Perci- 
Vile  saw  that  she  was  really  on  a  visit  to  him  on  hii 
island-perch,  he  rose,  and  when  she  came  near  enough, 
held  out  his  hand.  It  was  but  a  step,  and  she  waj 
beside  him  in  a  moment.  After  the  usual  grtctinga^ 
•rhich  on  her  part,  although  very  quiet,  like  every  ikouob 


THE    KEEVX.  329 


»nd  word  of  hers,  were  yet  indubitably  cordial  and  kind, 
she  said — 

"  When  you  get  back  to  London,  Mr  Percivale,  might 
1  ai\k  you  to  allow  some  friends  of  mine  to  call  at  your 
studio,  and  see  your  paintings?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  Percivale.  "  I  must 
warn  you,  however,  that  I  have  not  much  they  will  care 
to  see.  They  will  perhaps  go  away  less  happy  than  they 
entered.  Not  many  people  care  to  see  my  pictures 
twice." 

**  I  would  not  send  you  any  one  I  thought  unworthy 
>f  the  honour,"  answered  my  wife. 

Percivale  bowed — ohc  of  his  stately,  old-world  bows,, 
which  I  greatly  liked. 

"  Any  friend  of  youis— that  is  guarantee  sufficient,"  he 
answered. 

There  was  this  peculiarity  about  any  compHment  thai 
Percivale  paid,  that  you  had  not  a  doubt  of  its  being 
genuine. 

"  Will  you  come  and  take  an  early  dinner  with  us?" 
said  my  wife.  "  My  invalid  daughter  will  be  very  pleased 
to  see  you." 

"  I  will  with  pleasure,"  he  answered,  but  in  a  tone  of 
some  hesitation,  as  he  glanced  from  Ethelwyn  to  me. 

"  My  wife  spe  iks  for  us  all,"  I  said.  "  It  will  give  us 
•11  pleasure." 

"  1  am  only  afraid  it  will  break  in  upon  your  mornings 
work,"  remarked  Ethelw)m. 

"  Oh !  that  is  not  of  the  least  consequence,"  he  re- 
joined.    "In  fact,  as  I  have  just  been  saying  to  Ml 


330  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Walton,  I  am  not  working  a*  all  at  present  This  is 
pure  recreati  >n/' 

As  he  spoke,  he  turned  towards  his  easel,  and  began 
hastily  to  bundle  up  his  things. 

"  We  're  not  quite  ready  to  go  yet,"  said  my  wife,  loath 
to  leave  the  lovely  spot  **  What  a  curious  flat  stone 
this  is  ! "  rfhe  added. 

"  It  is,"  said  Percivale.  "  The  man  to  whom  the 
place  belongs,  a  worthy  yeoman  of  the  old  school,  says 
Chat  this  wider  part  of  the  channel  must  have  been  the 
fish-pond,  and  that  the  portly  monks  stood  on  this  stone 
and  fished  in  the  pond." 

"'I'hen  was  there  a  monastery  here  1 "  I  asked. 

**  Certainly.  The  ruint  of  the  chapel,  one  of  the 
omallest,  are  on  the  top,  just  above  the  fall — rather  a 
fearful  place  to  look  down  from.  I  wonder  you  did  not 
observe  them  as  you  came.  They  say  it  had  a  silver 
bell  in  the  days  of  its  glory,  which  now  lies  in  a  deep 
hole  under  the  basin,  half-way  between  the  top  and  bot- 
tom of  the  fall.  But  the  old  man  says  that  nothing  will 
make  him  look,  or  let  any  one  else  lift  the  huge  stone ; 
for  he  is  much  better  pleased  to  believe  that  it  may  be 
there,  than  he  would  be  to  know  it  was  not  there  ;  for 
certainly,  if  it  were  found,  it  would  not  be  left  there 
long." 

As  he  spoke  Percivale  had  continued  packing  his 
gear.  He  now  led  our  parly  up  to  the  chapel,  and  thence 
down  a  few  yards  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  where  the 
watei  fell  headlong.  I  turned  away  with  that  fear  of 
high  places  which  is  one  of  my  many  weaknesses,  and 


THE    KEEVR.  33I 


when  I  turned  again  towards  the  spot,  there  was  Wynnie 
on  the  very  edge,  looking  over  into  the  flash  and  tumult 
of  the  water  below,  but  with  a  nervous  grasp  of  the  band 
of  Percivale,  who  stood  a  little  further  back. 

In  going  home,  the  painter  led  us  by  an  easier  way 
out  of  the  valley,  left  his  little  easel  and  other  things  at  a 
cottage,  and  then  walked  on  in  front  between  my  wife 
and  daughter,  while  Turner  and  I  followed.  He  seemed 
quite  at  his  ease  with  them,  and  plenty  of  talk  and 
laughter  rose  on  the  way.  i,  however,  was  chiefly  oc- 
cupied with  finding  out  Timer's  impression  of  Connie's 
condition. 

"  She  is  certainly  bet<-ir,"  he  said.  "  I  wonder  you  do 
not  see  it  as  plainly  ps  I  do.  The  pain  is  nearly  gone 
trora  her  spine,  and  she  can  move  herself  a  good  deaf 
more,  I'am  ceit'.in,  than  she  could  when  she  left.  Sha 
asked  me  ye-jterday  if  she  might  not  turn  upon  one  side. 
*  Do  yo'j  ;h'nk  you  could  ] '  I  asked. — *  I  think  so,'  she 
ansHCT-jd.  *  At  any  rate>  I  have  often  a  great  inclination 
to  try ,  only  papa  said  I  had  better  wait  till  you  came.' 
1  do  think  she  might  be  allowed  a  little  more  change  ot 
posture  now." 

*'  Then  you  have  really  some  hope  of  her  final  re- 
'-^overy  1 " 

"  1  have  Aqpg  most  certainly.  But  what  is  hope  in  me, 
you  must  not  allow  to  become  certainty  in  you.  I  am 
nearly  sure,  though,  that  she  can  never  be  other  than  an 
invalid ;  that  is,  if  I  am  to  judge  by  what  I  know  of  such 
cases." 

**  I  am  thankful  for  the  hope,"  I  answered.    "You  nee<3 


33*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

not  be  afraid  of  my  turning  upon  you,  should  the  hope 
never  pass  into  sight  I  should  do  so  only  if  I  found 
that  you  had  been  treating  me  irrationally — inspiring 
me  with  hope  which  you  knew  to  be  false.  The  element 
of  uncertainty  is  essential  to  hope,  and  for  all  true  hope, 
even  as  hope,  man  has  to  be  unspeakably  tbankfuU* 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE    WALK    TO    CHURCH. 

WAS  glad  to  be  able  to  arrange  with  a  young 
clergyman  who  was  on  a  visit  to  Kilkhaven, 
that  he  should  take  my  duty  for  me  the  next 
Sunday,  for  that  was  the  only  one  Turner 
could  spend  with  us.  He  and  I  and  Wynnie  walked 
together  two  miles  to  church.  It  was  a  lovely  morning, 
with  just  a  tint  of  autumn  in  the  air.  But  even  that  tint, 
though  all  else  was  of  the  summer,  brought  a  shadow,  I 
could  see,  on  Wynnie's  face. 

"  You  said  you  would  show  me  a  poem  of— Vaughan, 
I  think  you  said,  was  the  name  of  the  writer.  I  am  too 
ignorant  of  our  older  literature,"  said  Turner. 

"  I  have  only  just  made  acquaintance  with  him,"  I 
answered.  "  But  I  think  I  can  repeat  the  poem.  You 
shall  judge  whether  it  is  not  like  Wordsworth's  ode, 

•  Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel  infancy ) 


33^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Before  I  understood  the  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race. 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
"When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space. 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face} 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Bat  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
O  how  I  long  to  travel  back'  "— — 

But  here  I  broke  down,  for  I  could  not  remember  the 
rest  with  even  approximate  accuracy. 

"  When  did  this  Vaughan  live?"  asked  Turner. 

"He  was  born,  I  find,  in  162 1 — five  years,  that  is, 
after  Shakspeare's  death,  and  when  Milton  was  about 
thirteen  years  old.  He  lived  to  the  age  of  seventy- 
three,  but  seems  to  have  been  little  known.  In  politics 
he  was  on  the  Cavalier  side.  By  the  way,  he  was  a 
medical  man,  like  you.  Turner — an  M.D.  We'll  have 
a  glance  at  the  Httle  book  when  we  go  back.  Don't 
let  me  forget  to  show  it  you.  A  good  many  of  your 
profession  have  distinguished  themselves  in  literature, 
and  as  profound  believers,  too.'' 

"  I  should  have  thought  the  profession  had  been 
chiefly  remarkable  for  such  as  believe  only  in  the  evi- 
dence of  the  senses." 


THE    WALK    TO    CHURCH.  335 

•*As  if  having  searched  into  the  innermost  recesses 
of  the  body,  and  not  having  found  a  soul,  they  con- 
sidered themselves  justified  in  declaring  there  was  none." 

«  Just  so." 

"  Well,  that  is  true  of  the  commonplace  amongsr 
them,  I  do  believe.  You  will  find  the  exceptions  have 
been  men  of  fine  minds  and  characters — not  such  as  he 
of  whom  Chaucer  says, — 

His  study  was  but  little  on  the  Bible  | 

for  if  you  look  at  the  rest  of  the  description  of  the  man, 
you  will  find  that  he  was  in  alliance  with  his  apothecary 
for  their  mutual  advantage,  that  he  was  a  money-loving 
man,  and  that  some  of  Chaucer's  keenest  irony  is  spent 
on  him  in  an  off-hand,  quiet  manner.  Compare  the 
tone  in  which  he  writes  of  the  doctor  of  physic,  with 
the  profound  reverence  wherewith  he  bows  himself  be- 
fore the  poor  country  parson." 

Here  Wynnie  spoke,  though  with  some  tremor  in  her 
voice. 

"  I  never  know,  papa,  what  people  mean  by  talking 
about  childhood  in  that  way.  I  never  seem  to  have 
been  a  bit  younger  and  more  innocent  than  I  am." 

"  Don't  you  remember  a  time,  Wynnie,  when  the 
things  about  you — the  sky  and  the  earth,  say — seemed 
to  you  much  grander  than  they  seem  now!  You  arc 
old  enough  to  have  lost  something." 

She  thought  for  a  Httle  while  before  she  answered. 

*'  My  dreams  were,  1  know.  I  cannot  say  so  of  any- 
thing else." 


33^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  in  my  turn  had  to  be  silent,  for  I  did  not  see  the 
true  answer,  though  I  was  sure  there  was  one  some- 
where, if  I  could  only  find  it.  All  I  could  reply,  how- 
ever, even  after  I  had  meditated  a  good  while,  was — and 
pel  haps,  after  all,  it  was  the  best  thing  1  could  have 
said — 

"  Then  you  must  make  a  good  use  of  your  dreams, 
my  child." 

*Why,  papal" 

"  Because  they  are  the  only  memorials  of  childhood 
you  have  left." 

"  How  am  I  to  make  a  good  use  of  them  1  I  don*t 
know  what  to  do  with  my  silly  old  dreams." 

But  she  gave  a  sigh  as  she  spoke  that  testified  her 
silly  old  dreams  had  a  charm  for  her  still. 

"  If  your  dreams,  my  child,  have  ever  testified  to  you 
of  a  condition  of  things  beyond  that  which  you  see 
around  you  ;  if  they  have  been  to  you  the  hints  of  a 
wonder  and  glory  beyond  what  visits  you  now,  you  must 
not  call  them  silly,  for  they  are  just  what  the  scents  of 
Paradise  borne  on  the  air  were  to  Adam  and  Eve  as 
they  delved  and  spun,  reminding  them  that  they  must 
aspire  yet  again  through  labour  into  that  childhood  of 
obedience  which  is  the  only  paradise  of  humanity — into 
that  oneness  with  the  will  of  the  Father,  which  our  race 
oui  individual  selves,  need  just  as  much  as  if  we  had  per- 
sonally fallen  with  Adam,  and  from  which  we  fall  every 
time  we  are  disobedient  to  the  voice  of  the  Father  within 
our  souls — to  the  conscience  which  is  his  making  and  his 
witness.     If  you  have  had  no  childhood,  my  VVynnie, 


THE    WALK    TO    CHURCH.  33^ 


yet  permit  your  old  father  to  say  that  everything  I  see  in 
you  indicates  more  strongly  in  you  than  in  most  people 
that  it  is  this  childhood  after  which  you  are  blindly  long- 
ing, without  which  you  find  that  life  is  hardly  to  be  en- 
dured. Thank  God  for  your  dreams,  my  child.  In  him 
you  will  find  that  the  essence  of  those  dreams  is  fulfilled. 
We  are  saved  by  hope,  Turner.  Never  man  hoped  too 
much,  or  repented  that  he  had  hoped.  The  plague  is 
that  we  don't  hope  in  God  half  enough.  The  very  fact 
that  hope  is  strength,  and  strength  the  outcome,  the 
body  of  life,  shows  that  hope  is  at  one  with  life,  with 
the  very  essence  of  what  says  *  I  am  * — yea,  of  what 
doubts  and  says  *  Am  I  ?  and  therefore  is  reasonable 
to  creatures  who  cannot  even  doubt  save  in  that  they 
hve." 

By  this  time,  for  I  have  of  course,  only  given  the 
outlines,  or  rather  salient  points,  of  our  conversation,  we 
had  reached  the  church,  where,  if  I  found  the  sermon 
neither  healing  nor  inspiring,  I  found  the  prayers  full  of 
hope  and  consolation.  They  at  least  are  safe  beyond 
human  caprice,  conceit,  or  incapacity.  Upon  them,  too, 
the  man  who  is  distressed  at  the  thought  of  how  little 
of  the  needful  food  he  had  been  able  to  provide  for  his 
people,  may  fall  back  for  comfort,  in  the  thought  that 
there  at  least  was  what  ought  to  have  done  them  good, 
what  it  was  well  worth,  their  while  to  go  to  church  for. 
But  I  did  think  they  were  too  long  for  any  individual 
Christian  soul  to  sympathise  with  from  beginning  to  end, 
that  is,  to  respond  to,  like  organ-tube  to  the  fingered 
Key,  in   every  touch  of  the  utterance  of  tne   general 


J38  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 


Chiistian  soul.  For  my  reader  must  remember  that  it 
is  one  thing  to  read  prayers  and  another  to  respond ; 
and  that  I  had  had  very  few  opportunities  of  being  in 
the  position  of  the  latter  duty.  I  had  had  suspicions 
before,  and  now  they  were  confirmed — that  the  present 
crowding  of  services  was  most  inexpedient.  Ami  as  I 
pondered  on  the  matter,  instead  of  trying  to  go  on  pray- 
ing after  I  had  already  uttered  my  soul,  which  is  but  a 
heathenish  attempt  after  much  speaking,  I  thought  how 
our  Lord  had  given  us  such  a  short  prayer  to  pray,  and 
I  began  to  wonder  when  or  how  the  services  came  to  be 
so  heaped  the  one  on  the  back  of  the  other  as  they  now 
were.  No  doubt  many  people  defended  them;  no 
doubt  many  people  could  sit  them  out ;  but  how  many 
people  could  pray  from  beginning  to  end  of.them'^  On 
this  point  we  had  some  talk  as  we  went  home.  VVynnie 
was  opposed  to  any  change  of  the  present  use  on  the 
ground  that  we  should  only  have  the  longer  sermons. 

"  Still,"  I  said,  "  I  do  not  think  even  that  so  great  an 
evil.  A  sensitive  conscience  will  rot  reproach  itself  so 
much  for  not  listening  to  the  whole  of  a  sermon,  as  for 
kneeling  in  prayer  and  not  praying.  I  think  myself, 
however,  that  after  the  prayers  are  over,  every  one  should 
be  at  hberty  to  go  out  and  leave  the  sermon  unlieard,  if 
he  pleases.  I  think  the  result  would  be  in  the  end  a 
good  one  both  for  parson  and  people.  It  would  break 
through  the  deadness  of  this  custom,  this  use  and  wont. 
Many  a  young  mind  is  turned  for  hfe  against  the  in- 
fluences of  church-going — one  of  the  most  sacred  in- 
fluences when  pure^  that  is,  unmingled  with   non  essen* 


THB    WALK    TO    CHVRCH  339 

tials — ^just  by  the  feeling  that  he  must  do  so  and  so,  that 
he  must  go  through  a  certain  round  of  duty.  It  is  a 
willing  service  that  the  lord  wants ;  no  forced  devotion? 
are  either  acceptable  to  him,  or  other  than  injurious  to 
the  worshipper,  if  such  he  can  be  called.'* 

After  an  early  dinner,  I  said  to  Turner, — 

"  Come  out  with  me,  and  we  will  read  that  poem  of 
Vaughan's  in  which  I  broke  down  to-day/* 

"  Oh,  papa ! "  said  Connie,  in  a  tone  of  injury  from 
the  sofa. 

"What  is  it,  my  deart"  I  asked. 

•*  Wouldn't  it  be  as  good  for  us  as  for  Mr  Turner?* 

"  Quite,  my  dear.  Well,  I  w^ill  keep  it  for  the  even- 
ing, and  meantime  Mr  Turner  and  I  will  go  and  see  if 
we  can  find  out  anything  about  the  change  in  the  church- 
service." 

For  I  had  thrown  into  my  bag  as  I  left  the  rectory  a 
copy  of  "The  Clergyman's  Vade  Mecum" — a  treatise 
occupied  with  the  externals  of  the  churchman's  relations 
—in  which  I  soon  came  upon  the  following  passage : — 

"  So  then  it  appears  that  the  common  practice  of  read- 
ing all  three  together,  is  an  innovation,  and  if  an  ancient 
or  infirm  clergyman  do  read  them  at  two  or  three  several 
times,  he  is  more  strictly  conformable :  however,  this  is 
much  better  than  to  omit  any  part  of  the  liturgy,  or  to 
read  all  three  offices  into  one,  as  is  now  commonly  done, 
without  any  pause  or  distinction.'* 

"  On  the  part  of  the  clergyman,  you  see,  Turner,"  I 
•aid,  when  1  had  finislied  reading  the  whole  p  issage  to 
bim.    **  There  is  no  care  tak<;n  of  the  delicate  women  ol 


34^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  congregation,  but  only  of  the  ancient  or  infirm  clergy- 
man. And  the  logic,  to  say  the  least,  is  rather  queer : 
is  it  only  in  virtue  of  his  antiquity  and  infirmity  that  he 
IS  to  be  upheld  in  being  more  strictly  conformable  t  The 
writer's  honesty  has  its  heels  trodden  upon  by  the  fear 
of  giving  offence.  Nevertheless  there  should  perliaps  be 
a  certain  slowness  to  admit  change,  even  back  to  a  more 
ancient  form." 

**I  don't  know  that  I  can  quite  agree  with  you 
there,"  said  Turner.  **  If  the  form  is  better,  no  one 
should  hesitate  to  advocate  the  change.  If  it  is  worse, 
then  slowness  is  not  sufficient :  utter  obstinacy  is  the 
right  condition." 

**  You  are  right.  Turner.  For  the  right  must  be  the 
rule,  and  where  the  right  is  beyond  our  understanding 
or  our  reach,  then  the  better,  as  indeed  not  only  right 
compared  with  the  other,  but  the  sole  ascent  towards 
the  right." 

In  the  evening  I  took  Henry  Vaughan's  poems  into 
the  common  sitting-room,  and  to  Connie's  great  delight 
read  the  whole  of  the  lovely,  though  unequal  little  poem, 
called  "  The  Retreat,"  in  recalling  which  I  had  failed  in 
the  morning.  She  was  especially  delighted  with  the 
** white  celestial  thought,"  and  the  "bright  shoots  of 
everlastingness."  Then  I  gave  a  few  lines  from  another 
yet  more  unequal  poem,  worthy  in  themselves  of  the 
best  of  the  other.     I  quote  tlie  first  strophe  entire. 

Childhood. 
•  I  cannot  reach  it  ;  and  my  striving  e|« 
Dazzles  at  u,  as  at  eicrnity. 


THE    V^ALK    TO    CHURCH.  34I 


Were  now  that  cbronicle  alive. 
Those  white  designs  which  children  driven 
And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour. 
With  their  content  too  in  my  power, 
Quickly  would  I  make  my  path  even. 
And  by  mere  playing  go  to  heaven. 

And  yet  the  practice  worldlings  call 
Business  and  weighty  action  all, 
Checking  the  poor  child  for  his  play. 
But  gravely  cast  themselves  away. 

An  age  of  mysteries  !  which  he 
Must  live  twice  that  would  God's  face  see^ 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play. 
Angels !  which  foul  men  drive  away. 

How  do  I  study  now,  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  ere  I  studied  man. 
And  only  see  through  a  long  night 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light  1 
0  for  thy  centre  and  midday  ! 
For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  wayl'^ 

•*  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  said  mj  wife  ^ 
softly,  as  I  closed  the  book. 

*'  May  I  have  the  book,  papa?"  said  Connie,  holding 
out  her  thin  white  cloud  of  a  hand  to  take  it 

"  Certainly,  my  child.  And  if  Wynnie  would  read  it 
with  you,  she  will  feel  more  of  the  truth  of  what  Mr 
Percivale  was  saying  to  her  about  finish.  Here  are  the  . 
finest,  grandest  thoughts,  set  forth  sometimes  with  such 
carelessness,  at  least  such  lack  of  neatness,  that,  instead 
of  their  falling  on  the  mmd  with  all  their  power  of 
loveliness,  they  are  like  a  beautiful  face  disfigured  with 
patches,  and,  what  is  worse,  they  put  the  mind  out  ol 


34a  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  right,  quiet,  unquestioning,  open  mood,  which  is  the 
only  fit  one  for  the  reception  of  such  true  things  as 
are  embodied  in  the  poems.  But  they  are  too  beautiful 
after  all  to  be  more  than  a  little  spoiled  by  such  a  lack 
of  the  finish  with  which  Art  ends  off  all  her  labours.  A 
gentleman,  however,  thinks  it  of  no  little  importance  to 
have  his  nails  Dice  as  well  %8  his  isux  and  his  shirt** 


CHAPTER   XXVII? 

TILE    OLD    CASTLE. 

|HE  place  Turner  had  chosen  suited  us  aQ 
so  well,  that  after  attending  to  my  duties  on 
the  two  following  Sundays  at  Kilkhaven,  I 
returned  on  the  Monday  or  Tuesday  to  the 
farmhouse.  But  Turner  left  us  in  the  middle  of  the 
second  week,  for  he  could  not  be  longer  absent  from  his 
charge  at  home,  and  we  missed  him  much.  It  was 
some  days  before  Connie  was  quite  as  cheerful  again  as 
usual  I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  in  the  least  gloomy 
—that  she  never  was ;  she  was  only  a  little  less  merry. 
But  whether  it  was  that  Turner  had  opened  our  eyes,  or 
that  she  had  visibly  improved  since  he  allowed  her  to 
make  a  little  change  in  her  posture  —  certainly  she 
appeared  to  us  to  have  made  considerable  progress,  and 
every  now  and  then  we  were  discovering  some  litde 
proof  of  the  fact  One  evening,  while  we  were  still  at 
the  iaxm,  she  startled  us  by  calling  out  suddenly, — 


Zi4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Papa,  papa !  I  moved  my  big  toe  !     I  did  indeed.** 

We  were  all  about  her  in  a  moment.  But  I  saw  that 
she  was  excited,  and  fearing  a  reaction  I  sought  to  calm 
her. 

"  But,  my  dear,'*  I  said,  as  quietly  as  I  could,  "  you 
are  probably  still  aware  that  you  are  possessed  of  two 
big  toes :  which  of  them  are  we  to  congratulate  on  this 
first  stride  in  the  march  of  improvement  I  *' 

She  broke  out  in  the  merriest  laugh.     A  pause  fol- 
lowed  in  which  4ier  face  wore  a  puzzled   expression.. 
Then  slie  said  all  at  once,  "  Papa,  it  is  very  odd,  but 
I  can't  tell  which  of  them,"  and  burst  into  tears.     I  was 
afraid  that  1  had  done  more  harm  than  good. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence,  my  child,*'  I 
said.  "  You  have  had  so  little  communication  with  the 
twins  of  late,  that  it  is  no  wonder  you  should  not  be 
able  to  tell  the  one  from  the  other.*' 

She  smiled  again  through  her  sobs,  but  was  silent, 
with  shining  face,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Our 
hopes  took  a  fresh  start,  but  we  heard  no  more  from 
her  of  her  power  over  her  big  toe.  As  often  as  I  in- 
quired she  said  she  was  afraid  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
for  she  had  not  had  another  »hint  of  its  existence.  Still 
I  thought  it  could  not  have  been  a  fancy,  and  I  would 
cleave  to  my  belief  in  the  good  sign. 

Percivale  called  to  see  us  several  times,  but  always 
appealed  anxious  not  to  intrude  more  of  his  society 
upon  us  than  might  be  agreeable.  He  grew  in  my 
regard,  however ;  and  at  length  I  asked  him  if  he  would 
assist  me  in  another  surprise  which  I  meditated  for  my 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  345 


companions,  and  this  time  for  Connie  as  well,  and  which 
I  hoped  would  prevent  the  painful  influences  of  the 
sight  of  the  sea  from  returning  upon  them  when  they 
went  back  to  Kilkhaven  :  they  must  see  the  sea  from  a 
quite  different  shore  first  In  a  word  I  would  take 
them  to  Tintagel,  of  the  near  position  of  which  they 
were  not  aware,  although  in  some  of  our  walks  we  had 
seen  the  ocean  in  the  distance.  An  early  day  was  fixed 
for  carrying  out  our  project,  and  I  proceeded  to  get 
everytiiing  ready.  The  only  difficulty  was  to  find  a 
carriage  in  the  neighbourhood  suitable  for  receiving 
Connie's  litter.  In  this,  however,  I  at  length  succeeded, 
and  on  the  morning  of  a  glorious  day  of  blue  and  gold, 
we  set  out  for  the  little  village  of  Trevenna,  now  far 
better  known  than  at  the  time  of  which  I  write.  Connie 
had  been  out  eveiy  day  since  she  came,  now  in  one  part 
of  the  fields,  now  in  another,  enjoying  the  expanse  of 
earth  and  sky,  but  she  had  had  no  drive,  and  conse- 
quently had  seen  no  variety  of  scenery.  Therefore,, 
believing  she  was  now  thoroughly  able  to  bear  it,  I 
quite  reckoned  of  the  good  she  would  get  from  the 
inevitable  excitement.  We  resolved,  however,  after 
finding  how  much  she  enjoyed  the  few  miles*  drive,  that 
we  would  not  demand  more  of  her  strength  that  day, 
and  therefore  put  up  at  the  little  inn,  where,  after  order- 
ing dinner,  Percivale  and  I  left  the  ladies,  and  sallied 
forth  to  reconnoitre. 

We  walked  through  the  village  and  down  the  valley 
beyond,  sloping  steeply  between  hills  towards  the  sea, 
Che  opening  closed  at  the  end  by  the  blue  of  the  ocean 


34^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

below,  and  the  more  ethereal  blue  of  the  sky  above. 
But  when  we  reached  the  mouth  of  the  valley  we  found 
that  we  were  not  yet  on  the  shore,  for  a  precipice  lay 
between  us  and  the  little  beach  below.  On  the  left  a 
great  peninsula  of  rock  stood  out  into  the  sea,  upon 
which  rose  the  ruins  of  the  keep  of  Tititagel,  while 
behind  on  the  mainland  stood  the  ruins  of  the  castle 
itself,  connected  with  the  other  only  by  a  narrow  isthmus. 
We  had  read  that  this  peninsula  had  once  been  an  island, 
and  that  the  two  parts  of  the  castle  were  formerly  con- 
nected by  a  drawbridge.  Looking  up  at  the  great  gap 
which  now  divided  the  two  portions,  it  seemed  at  first 
impossible  to  believe  that  they  had  ever  been  thus 
united  ;  but  a  httle  reflection  cleared  up  the  mystery. 
The  fact  was,  that  the  isthmus,  of  half  the  height  of  the 
two  parts  connected  by  it,  had  been  formed  entirely  by 
the  fall  of  portions  of  the  rock  and  soil  on  each  side 
into  the  narrow  dividing  space,  through  which  the  waters 
of  the  Atlantic  had  been  wont  to  sweep.  And  now  the 
fragments  of  walls  stood  on  the  very  verge  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  showed  that  large  portions  of  the  castle  itself 
had  fallen  into  the  gulf  between.  We  turned  to  the  left 
along  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and  so  by  a  narrow  path 
reached  and  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  isthmus. 
We  then  found  that  the  path  led  to  the  foot  of  the  rock, 
formerly  island,  of  the  keep  and  thence  in  a  zigzag  up 
the  face  of  it  to  the  top.  We  loll  owed  it,  and  after  a 
great  chmb  reached  a  door  in  a  modern  battlement 
Entering,  we  found  ourselves  a-midst  grass,  and  ruins 
haggard  with  age.     ^Ve  turned  and  surveyed  the  path 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  34) 


by  which  we  had  come.  It  was  steep  and  somewhat 
difficult.  But  the  outlook  was  glorious.  It  was  indeed 
one  of  God's  mounts  of  vision  upon  which  we  stood. 
The  thought,  "  Oh  that  Connie  could  see  this  !"  was 
swelling  in  my  heart,  when  Percivale  broke  the  silence — 
not  with  any  remark  on  the  glory  around  us,  but  with 
the  commonplace  question — 

"  You  haven't  got  your  man  with  you,  I  think,  Mr 
Walton  1" 

"  No,"  I  answered ;  "  we  thought  it  better  to  leave 
him  to  look  after  the  boys." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  while  I  gazed  iv. 
delight. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  **  it  would  be  possible  to 
bring  Miss  Constance  up  here  V 

I  almost  started  at  the  idea,  and  had  not  replied 
before  he  resumed : 

"  It  would  be  something  for  her  to  recur  to  with 
delight  all  the  rest  of  her  life." 

**  It  would,  indeed.     But  it  is  impossible." 

"  I  do  not  tliink  so — if  you  would  allow  me  the 
Honour  to  assist  you.  I  think  we  could  do  it  perfectly 
between  us." 

i  was  again  silent  for  a  while.  Looking  down  on  the 
V7ay  we  had  come,  it  seamed  an  almost  dreadful  under- 
taking.    Percivale  spoke  again. 

**As  we  shall  come  here  to-morrow,  we  need  not  ex- 
plore the  place  now.  Shall  we  go  down  at  once  and 
observe  the  whole  path,  with  a  view  to  the  practicability 
•f  carrying  her  up  I " 


548  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  There  can  be  no  objection  to  that,**  I  answered,  as 
a  little  hope,  and  courage  with  it,  began  to  dawn  in  my 
heart  "  But  you  must  allow  it  does  not  look  very  prac- 
ticable." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  seem  more  so  to  you,  if  you  had 
come  up  with  the  idea  in  your  head  all  the  way,  as  I 
did.  Any  path  seems  more  difficult  in  looking  back  than 
at  the  time  when  the  difficulties  themselves  have  to  be 
met  and  overcome." 

**  Yes,  but  then  you  must  remember  that  we  have  to 
take  the  way  back  whether  we  will  or  no,  if  we  once  take 
the  way  forward." 

"  True ;  and  now  I  will  go  down  with  the  descent  in 
my  head  as  well  as  under  my  feet." 

"Well,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  reconnoitring  it  at 
least.     Let  us  go." 

"You  know  we  can  rest  almost  as  often  as  W3  please,** 
said  Percivale,  and  turned  to  lead  th^  way. 

It  certainly  was  steep,  and  requued  care  even  m  our 
own  descent;  but  for  a  man  ^rio  had  r.lin.bed  moun- 
tains, as  I  had  done  in  ray  yoath,  it  rould  hardly  be 
called  difficult  even  in  mid' He:  age  P>y  ihe  time  we  had 
got  again  into  the  valley  ioad  J  was  all  but  convinced  of 
the  practicability  of  Uj*?  proposal  I  was  a  little  vexed, 
however,  I  must  confeat^  that  a  stranger  should  have 
thought  of  giving  such  a  pKiasurt  to  Connie,  when  the 
bare  wish  that  she  might  have  enjoyed  it  had  alone  arisen 
in  my  mind.  I  comforted  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
this  was  one  of  the  ways  in  which  we  were  to  be  weaned 
ffon  the  world  and  knit  the  faster  to  our  fellows.     Fot 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  349 

even  the  middle-aged,  in  the  decay  of  their  daring,  must 
look  for  the  fresh  thought  and  the  fresh  impulse  to  the 
youth  which  follows  at  their  heels  in  the  march  of  life. 
Their  part  is  to  will  the  relation  and  the  obligation,  and 
so,  by  love  to  and  faith  in  the  young,  keep  themselves  in 
the  line  along  which  the  electric  current  flows,  till  at 
length  they  too  shall  once  more  be  young  and  daring  in 
the  strength  of  the  Lord.  A  man  must  always  seek  to 
rise  above  his  moods  and  feelings,  to  let  them  move 
within  him,  but  not  allow  them  to  storm  or  gloom  around 
him.  By  the  time  we  reached  home  we  had  agreed  to 
make  the  attempt,  and  to  judge  by  the  path  to  the  foot 
of  the  rock,  which  was  difficult  in  parts,  whether  we 
should  be  likely  to  succeed,  without  danger,  in  attempt- 
ing the  rest  of  the  way  and  the  following  descent  Ai 
soon  as  we  had  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  I  felt  so  happy 
in  the  prospect  that  I  grew  quite  merry,  especially  after 
we  had  further  agreed  that,  both  for  the  sake  of  her  nerves 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  lordly  surprise,  we  should  bind 
Connie's  eyes  so  that  she  should  see  nothing  till  we 
had  placed  her  in  a  certain  position,  concerning  the  pre- 
ferableness  of  which  we  were  not  of  two  minds. 

"What  mischief  have  you  two  been  about?"  said  my 
wife,  as  we  entered  our  room  in  the  inn,  where  the  cloth 
was  already  laid  for  dinner.  "  You  look  just  like  two 
fchool-boys  that  have  been  lapng  some  plot,  and  can 
hardly  hold  their  tongues  about  it.'* 

**  We  have  been  enjoying  our  little  walk  amazingly," 
I  answered.  **  So  much  so,  that  we  mean  to  set  out  foff 
another  the  moment  dinner  is  over." 


350  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  I  hope  you  will  take  Wynnie  with  you  then." 

**  Or  you,  my  love,"  I  returned. 

"  No  ;  I  will  stay  with  Connie." 

**  Very  well.  You,  and  Connie  too,  shall  go  out  to 
morrow,  for  we  have  found  a  place  we  want  to  take  yoo 
to.  An^,  indeed,  I  believe  it  was  our  anticipation  of  the 
pleasure  you  and  she  would  have  r.i  the  view  that  made 
us  so  merry  when  you  accused  us  of  plotting  mischief.'* 

My  wife  replied  only  with  a  loving  look,  and  dinnei 
appearing  at  this  moment,  we  sat  down  a  happy  party. 

When  that  was  over — and  a  very  good  dinner  it  wasj 
just  what  I  like,  homely  in  material  but  admirable  in 
cooking — Wynnie  and  Percivale  and  I  set  out  again. 
For  as  Percivale  and  I  came  back  in  the  morning  we  had 
seen  the  church  standing  far  aloft  and  aloof  on  the  other 
side  of  the  little  valley,  and  we  wanted  to  go  to  it.  It 
was  rather  a  steep  climb,  and  Wynnie  accepted  Perci- 
vale's  offered  arm.  I  led  the  way,  therefore,  and  left 
them  to  follow — not  so  far  in  the  rear,  however,  but  that 
I  could  take  a  share  in  the  conversation.  It  was  some 
little  time  before  any  arose,  and  it  was  Wynnie  who  led 
the  way  into  it. 

*'  What  kind  of  things  do  you  like  best  to  paint,  Mr 
Percivale  1 "  she  asked. 

He  hesitated  for  several  seconds,  which  between  a 
question  and  an  answer  look  so  long,  that  most  people 
would  call  them  minutes. 

"  I  would  lather  you  should  see  some  of  my  pictures 
— I  should  Dreler  that  to  answering  your  question,"  he 
laidj  a/-  lengtn. 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  351 

**  But  I  have  seen  some  of  yo^:^  p'.ct-.irp? /'  ?.b.?  re- 
turned, 

"  Pardon  me.     Indeed  you  have  not,  Miss  Walton.** 
*  At  least  I  have  seen  some  of  your  sketches  and 
itudies." 

"  Some  of  my  sketches — none  of  my  studies." 

**  But  you  make  use  of  your  sketches  for  your  pictures^ 
do  you  not  ?  ** 

"  Never  of  such  as  you  have  seen.  They  are  only  a 
slight  antidote  to  my  pictures." 

•*  I  cannot  understand  you." 
I  do  not  wonder  at  that     But  I  would  rather,  I  re- 
peat, say  nothing  about  my  pictures  till  you  see  some  of 
them.'* 

**  But  how  am  I  to  have  that  pleasure,  then  f " 

"  You  go  to  London,  sometimes,  do  you  not  f  ** 

"  Veiy  rarely.  More  rarely  still  when  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy is  open." 

"  That  does  not  matter  much.  My  pictures  are  sel- 
dom to  be  found  there." 

"  Do  you  not  care  to  send  them  there  f " 

"  I  send  one  at  least  every  year.  But  they  are  rarely 
accepted.** 

i.  Why?" 

This  was  a  very  improper  question,  I  thought ;  but  if 
Wynnie  had  thought  so  she  would  not  have  put  it  lie 
hesitated  a  little  before  he  replied. 

"It  is  hardly  for  me  to  say  why,"  he  answered ; 
•but  I  cannot  wonder  much  at  it,  considering  the  sub- 
Iccts  I  choose. — But  I  daresay,"  he  added,  in  a  lightei 


35*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

tone,  "after  all,  that  has  little  to  do  with  it,  and  there  is 
something  about  the  things  themselves  that  precludes  a 
favourable  judgment.  I  avoid  thinking  about  it  A  man 
ought  to  try  to  look  at  his  own  work  as  if  it  were  none 
of  his,  but  not  as  with  the  eyes  of  other  people.  That 
is  an  impossibility,  and  the  attempt  a  bewilderment.  It 
is  with  his  own  eyes  he  must  look,  with  his  own  judg- 
ment he  must  judge.  The  only  effort  is  to  get  it  set  fax 
away  enough  from  him  to  be  able  to  use  his  own  eyes 
and  his  own  judgment  upon  it" 

"  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean.  A  man  has  but  his 
own  eyes  and  his  own  judgment  To  look  with  those  ol 
other  people  is  but  a  fancy." 

"  Quite  so.     You  understand  me  quite.* 

He  said  no  more  in  explanation  of  his  rejection 
by  the  Academy.  Till  we  reached  the  church,  nothing 
more  of  significance  passed  between  them. 

What,  a  waste,  bare  churchyard  that  was !  It  had  two 
or  three  lych-gates,  but  they  had  no  roofs.  They  were 
just  small  enclosures,  with  the  low  stone  tables  to  rest 
the  living  from  the  weight  of  the  dead,  while  the  clergy- 
man, as  the  keeper  of  heaven's  wardrobe,  came  forth  to 
receive  the  garment  they  restored — to  be  laid  aside  as 
having  ended  its  work,  as  having  been  worn  done  in  the 
winds,  and  rains,  and  labours  of  the  world.  Not  a  tree 
stood  in  that  churchyard.  Rank  grass  was  the  sole 
covering  of  the  soil  heaved  up  with  the  dead  beneath. 
What  blasts  from  the  awful  spacs  of  the  cea  must  lush 
athwart  the  undefended  garden  I  The  ancient  church 
stood  in  the  midst,  with  its  low,  strong,  square  towco 


THE    OLD   CASTLE.  355 


and  its  long,  narrow  nave,  the  ridge  bowed  with  age, 
like  tlie  back  of  a  horse  worn  out  in  the  service  of  man, 
and  its  little  homely  chancel,  Hke  a  small  cottage  that 
had  leaned  up  against  its  end  for  shelter  from  the  western 
blasts.  It  was  locked,  and  we  could  not  enter.  But  of 
all  world-worn,  sad-looking  churches,  that  one — sad,  even 
in  the  sunset — was  the  dreariest  I  had  ever  beheld. 
Surely,  it  needed  che  gospel  of  the  resurrection  fervently 
preached  therein,  to  keep  it  from  sinking  to  the  dust 
with  dismay  and  weariness.  Such  a  soul  alone  could 
keep  it  Irom  vanishing  utterly  of  dismal  old  age.  Near 
it  was  one  huge  mound  of  grass-grown  rubbish,  looking 
like  the  grave  where  some  former  church  of  the  dead  had 
been  buried,  when  it  could  stand  erect  no  longer  before 
the  onsets  of  Atlantic  winds.  I  walked  round  and 
round  it,  gathering  its  architecture,  and  peeping  in  at 
every  window  I  could  reach.  Suddenly  X  was  aware 
that  I  was  alone.  Returning  to  the  other  side,  I  found 
that  Percivale  was  seated  on  the  churchyard  wall,  next 
the  sea — it  would  have  been  less  dismal  had  it  stood  im- 
mediately on  the  cliffs,  but  they  were  at  some  little  dis- 
tance beyond  bare  downs  and  rough  stone  walls :  he 
was  sketching  the  place,  and  Wynnie  stood  beside 
bira,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  I  did  not  interrupt  him, 
but  walked  among  the  graves,  reading  the  poor  memorials 
of  the  dead,  and  wondering  how  many  of  the  words  ot 
laudation  that  were  inscribed  on  their  tombs  were 
spoken  of  them  while  they  were  yet  alive.  Yet  surely, 
in  the  lives  of  those  to  whom  they  applied  the  least, 
there   had   been   moments   wJien  the  tiue  nature,  the 


354  THE    SEABOARD   PARISH. 

nature  God  had  given  them,  broke  forth  in  faith  and 
tenderness,  and  would  have  justified  the  words  inscribed 
on  their  gravestones !  I  was  yet  wandering  and  read 
ing,  and  stumbling  over  the  mounds,  when  my  com- 
panions joined  me,  and,  without  a  word,  we  walked  out 
of  the  churchyard.  We  were  nearly  home  before  one  of 
us  spoke. 

"  That  church  is  oppressive,"  said  Percivale.  "  It  looks 
like  a  great  sepulchre,  a  place  built  only  for  the  dead— 
the  church  of  the  dead." 

"  It  is  only  that  it  partakes  with  the  living,**  I  returned; 
"  suffers  with  them  the  buffetings  of  life,  outlasts  them, 
but  shows,  like  the  shield  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight,  the 
*  old  dints  of  deep  wounds.'  ** 

"  Still,  is  it  not  a  dreary  place  to  choose  for  a  church 
to  stand  in?" 

"The  church  must  stand  everywhere.  There  is  no 
region  into  which  it  must  not,  ought  not  to  enter.  If 
it  refuses  any  earthly  spot,  it  is  shrinking  from  its  calling. 
Here  this  one  stands  for  the  sea  as  for  the  land,  high- 
uplifted,  looking  out  over  the  waters  as  a  sign  of  the 
haven  from  all  storms,  the  rest  in  God.  And  down  be- 
neath in  its  storehouse  lie  the  bodies  of  men — ^you  saw 
the  grave  of  some  of  them  on  the  other  side — flung 
ashore  from  the  gulfing  sea.  It  n: ay  be  a  weakness,  but 
one  would  rather  have  the  bones  of  his  friend  laid  in  the 
utill  Sabbath  of  the  churchyard  earth,  than  sweeping  and 
swaying  about  as  Milton  imagines  the  bones  of  his  friend 
Edward  King,  in  that  wonderful  *Lycidas.'"  Then  I 
told  them  the  conversation  I  had  had  with  the  sexton  at 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  355 


Kilkhaven.  "Bu4;,"  I  went  on,  "these  fancies  are  only 
the  ghostly  mists  that  hang  about  the  eastern  hills  before 
the  sun  rises.  We  shall  look  down  on  all  that  with  a 
smile  by  and  by  ;  for  the  Lord  tells  us  that  if  we  believe 
in  him  we  shall  never  die." 

By  this  time  we  were  back  once  more  at  the  inn.  We 
gave  Connie  a  description  of  what  we  had  seen. 

"What  a  brave  old  church  !"  said  Connie. 

The  next  day  I  awoke  very  early,  full  of  the  antici- 
pated attempt.  I  got  up  at  once,  found  the  weather  most 
promising,  and  proceeded  first  of  all  to  have  a  look  at 
Connie's  litter,  and  see  that  it  was  quite  sound.  Satisfied 
of  this,  I  rejoiced  in  the  contemplation  of  its  lightness 
and  strength. 

After  breakfast  I  went  to  Connie's  room,  and  told 
her  that  Mr  Percivale  and  I  had  devised  a  treat  foi 
her.     Her  face  shone  at  once. 

"  But  we  want  to  do  it  our  own  way." 

**  Of  course,  papa,"  she  answered. 

•*  Will  you  let  us  tie  your  eyes  up  1  * 

**  Yes ;  and  my  ears  and  my  hands  too.  It  would  be 
no  good  tying  my  feet,  when  I  don't  know  one  big  toe 
from  the  other." 

And  she  laughed  merrily. 

"  We  '11  try  to  keep  up  the  talk  all  the  way,  so  that  you 
slian't  weary  of  the  journey. 

"You're  going  to  carry  me  somewhere  with  my  eyes 
tied  up.  Oh  I  how  jolly !  And  then  I  shall  see  some- 
thing all  at  once !  Jolly !  jolly  I — Getting  tired  I**  she  re» 
peated.     "Even  the  wind  on  my  face  would  be  plea- 


$$6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

sure  enough  for  half  a  day.  I  shan't  get  tired  so  soon 
as  you  will — ^you  dear,  kind  papa  !  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
be  dreadfully  heavy.  But  I  shan't  jeik  your  arms  much. 
I  will  lie  so  still ! " 

"  And  you  won't  mind  letting  Mr  Percivale  help  me 
tocarr>'  youT* 

"  No  Why  should  I,  if  he  doesn't  mind  it  ?  lie 
looks  strong  enough  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  is  nice,  and 
won't  think  me  heavier  than  I  am." 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  will  send  mamma  and  Wynnie 
to  dress  you  at  once;  and  we  shall  set  out  as  soon  as  you 
are  ready." 

She  clapped  her  hands  with  delight,  then  caught  me 
round  the  neck  and  gave  me  one  of  my  own  kisses  as 
she  called  the  best  she  had,  and  began  to  call  as  loud  as 
she  could  on  her  mamma  and  Wynnie  to  come  and  dress 
her. 

It  v;as  indeed  a  glorious  morning.  The  wnnd  came  in 
little  wafts,  like  veins  of  cool,  white  silver  amid  the  great 
warm,  yellow  gold  of  the  sunshine.  The  sea  lay  before 
us,  a  mound  of  blue  closing  up  the  end  of  the  valley,  as 
if  overpowered  into  quietness  by  the  lordliness  of  the  sun 
overhead  ;  and  the  riilU  between  which  we  went  lay  like 
great  sheep,  with  green  wool,  basking  in  the  blissful  heat. 
The  gleam  fiom  the  waters  came  up  the  pass ;  the  grand 
castle  crovvned  the  left-hand  steep,  seeming  to  warm  its 
old  bones,  hke  the  ruins  of  some  awful  megatherium  in 
the  lighted  air ;  one  white  sail  sped  like  a  glad  thought 
across  the  spandrel  of  the  sea  ;  the  shadow  s  of  the  rocks 
lay  over  our  patli,  like  transient,  cool,  benignant  death* 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  35? 


through  which  we  had  to  pass  again  and  again  to  yet 
higher  glory  beyond;  and  one  lark  was  somewhere  in 
whose  little  breast  the  whole  world  was  reflected  as  in 
the  convex  mirror  of  a  dewdrop,  where  it  swelled  so  that 
he  could  not  hold  it,  but  let  it  out  again  through  his 
throat,  metamorphosed  into  music,  which  he  poured 
forth  over  all  as  the  libation  on  the  outspread  altar  of 
worship. 

And  of  all  this  we  talked  to  Connie  as  we  went ;  and 
every  now  and  then  she  would  clap  her  hards  gently  in 
the  fulness  of  her  delight,  although  she  beheld  the  splen- 
dour only  as  with  her  ears,  or  from  the  kisses  of  the  wind 
on  her  cheeks.  But  she  seemed,  since  her  accident,  to 
have  approached  that  condition  which  Milton  represents 
Samson  as  longing  for  in  his  bUndness,  wherein  the  sight 
should  be 

"  through  all  parts  diffused. 
That  she  might  look  at  will  through  every  pore." 

I  had,  however,  arranged  with  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany that  the  moment  we  reached  the  cliff  over  the 
shore,  and  turned  to  the  left  to  cross  the  isthmus,  the 
conversation  should  no  longer  be  about  the  things  around 
us :  and  especially  I  warned  my  wife  and  Wynnie  that 
no  exclamation  of  surprise  or  delight  should  break  from 
them  before  Connie's  eyes  were  uncovered.  I  had  said 
nothing  to  either  of  them  about  the  difficulties  of  the 
way,  that,  seeing  us  take  them  as  ordinary  things,  they 
might  take  them  so  too,  and  not  be  uneasy. 

We  never  stopped  till  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  pen« 
iDA'ila.  nie  island,  upon  which  the  keep  of  Tintaeel  standfc 


3S8  THE    SFABOARD    PARISH. 

There  we  set  Connie  down,  to  take  bre?.th  and  ease  om 
a'-ros  before  we  began  the  arduous  way. 

"  Now,  now  !"  said  Connie,  eagerly,  lifting  her  hands 
TO  the  belief  that  we  were  on  the  point  of  undoing  the 
bandage. from  her  eyes. 

"  No,  no,  my  love,  not  yet,"  I  said,  and  she  lay  still 
again,  only  she  looked  more  eager  than  before. 

•'  I  am  afraid  I  have  tired  out  you  and  Mr  Percivale, 
papa,"  she  said. 

Percivale  laughed  so  amusedly,  that  she  rejoined 
roguishly — 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  know  every  gentleman  is  a  Hercules — at 
kast,  he  chooses  to  be  considered  one  !  But,  notwith- 
standing ray  firm  faith  in  the  fact,  I  have  a  little  womanly 
conscience  left  that  is  hard  to  hoodwink." 

There  was  a  speech  for  my  wee  Connie  to  mak-el 
The  best  answer  and  the  best  revenge  was  to  lift  her 
and  go  on.  This  we  did,  trying  as  well  as  we  might  to 
prevent  the  difference  of  level  between  us  from  tilting 
the  litter  too  much  for  her  comfort 

**  Where  are  you  going,  papaT'  she  said  once,  but 
without  a  sign  of  fear  in  her  voice,  as  a  little  slip  I  made 
lowered  my  end  of  the  litter  suddenly.  "  You  must  be 
going  up  a  steep  place.    Don't  hurt  yourself,  dear  papa." 

We  had  changed  our  positions,  and  were  now  czxry- 
ing  her,  head  foremost,  up  th<*  h»'l  Percivale  led,  and 
I  followed.  Now  I  could  see  every  change  on  her 
lovely  face,  and  it  made  me  strong  to  endure ;  for  I  did 
find  it  hard  work,  I  confess,  to  get  to  the  top.  It 
lay  like  •  little  sunny  pool  on  which  all  the  cloudjr 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  35f 


thoughts  that  moved  in  some  unseen  heaven  cast  ex- 
quisitely delicate  changes  of  light  and  shade  as  they 
floated  over  it.  Percivale  strode  on  as  if  he  bore  a 
feather  behind  him.  I  did  wish  we  were  at  the  top,  for 
my  arms  began  to  feel  like  iron-cables,  stiff  and  stark^- 
only  1  was  afraid  of  my  fingers  giving  way.  My  heart 
was  beating  uncomfortably  too.  But  Percivale,  I  felt 
almost  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him  before  it  was  over, 
he  strode  on  so  unconcernedly,  turning  every  corner  of 
the  zigzag  where  I  expected  him  to  propose  a  halt,  and 
striding  on  again,  as  if  there  could  be  no  pretence  for 
any  change  of  procedure.  But  I  held  out,  strengthened 
by  the  play  on  my  daughter's  face,  delicate  as  the  play 
on  an  opal — one  that  inclines  more  to  the  milk  than  the 
fire. 

When  at  length  we  turned  in  through  the  gothic  door 
in  the  battlemented  wall,  and  set  our  lovely  burden  down 
upon  the  grass — 

"  Percivale,"  I  said,  forgetting  the  proprieties  in  the 
affected  hitmour  of  being  angry  with  him,  so  glad  was  I 
that  we  had  her  at  length  on  the  mount  of  glory,  "  why 
did  you  go  on  walking  like  a  castle,  and  pay  no  heed  to 
me?" 

"  You  didn't  speak,  did  you  Mr  Walton  1 "  he  returned, 
with  just  a  shadow  of  solicitude  in  the  questioiL 

**  No.     Of  course  not,"  I  rejoined. 

"  (Dh,  then,"  he  returned,  in  a  tone  of  reliefl  **  how 
could  II  You  were  my  captain:  how  could  I  give  in 
lO  long  as  you  were  holding  on  ] " 

I  am  afraid  the  Percivale^  without  the  Mister,  catna 


350  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

again  and  again  after  this,  though  I  pulled  myself  up  foi 
it  as  often  as  I  caught  myself. 

**  Now,  papa  1 "  said  Connie  from  the  grass. 

"  Not  yet,  my  dear.  Wait  till  your  mamma  and 
Wynnie  come.  Let  us  go  and  meet  them,  Mr  Perci- 
vale." 

"  Oh  yes,  do,  papa.  Leave  me  alone  here  without 
knowing  where  I  am  or  what  kind  of  a  place  I  am  in. 
I  should  like  to  know  how  it  feels.  I  have  never  been 
alone  in  all  my  life." 

'**  Very  well,  my  dear,*'  I  said ;  and  Percivale  and  I 
left  her  alone  in  the  ruins. 

We  found  Ethel wyn  toiling  up  with  Wynnie  helping 
her  all  she  could. 

"  Dear  Harry,**  she  said,  **  how  could  you  think  of 
bringing  Connie  up  such  an  awful  place  ?  I  wonder  you 
dared  to  do  it." 

*•  It*s  done,  you  see,  wife,"  I  answered,  "thanks  to  Mr 
Percivale,  who  has  nearly  torn  the  breath  out  of  me. 
But  now  we  must  get  you  up,  and  you  will  say  that  to 
see  Connie's  delight,  not  to  mention  your  own,  is  quite 
wages  for  the  labour.*' 

"  Isn't  she  afraid  to  find  herself  so  high  up  1 " 

**  She  knows  nothing  about  it  yet." 

**  You  do  not  mean  you  have  left  the  child  there  with 
her  eyes  tied  up." 

"  To  be  sure  We  could  not  uncover  them  before  you 
eame.     It  would  spoil  half  the  pleasure.'* 

"  Do  let  us  make  haste  tlien.  It  is  surely  dangeroui 
to  leave  her  sa* 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  361 


**  Not  in  the  least ;  but  she  must  be  getting  tired  oi 
the  darkness.     Take  my  arm  now." 

"  Don't  you  think  Mrs  Walton  had  better  take  my 
arm  ? "  said  Percivale,  "  and  then  you  can  put  your  hand 
on  her  back,  and  help  her  a  little  that  way." 

We  tried  the  plan,  found  it  a  good  one,  and  soon 
"eached  the  top.  The  moment  our  eyes  fell  upon  Connie, 
we  could  see  that  she  had  found  the  place  neither  fear- 
ful nor  lonely.  The  sweetest  ghost  of  a  smile  hovered 
on  her  pale  face,  which  shone  in  the  shadow  of  the  old 
gateway  of  the  keep,  with  light  from  within  her  own 
sunny  souL  She  lay  in  such  still  expectation,  that  you 
would  have  thought  she  had  just  fallen  asleep  after  re- 
ceiving an  answer  to  a  prayer,  reminding  me  of  a  little- 
known  sonnet  of  Wordsworth's,  in  which  he  describes  as 
the  type  of  Death — 

the  face  of  one 
Sleeping  alone  within  a  mossy  cave, 
With  her  face  up  to  heaven ;  that  seemed  to  have 
Pleasing  remembrance  of  a  thought  foregone  ; 
A  lov^ely  beauty  in  a  summer  grave.* 

But  she  heard  our  steps,  and  her  face  awoke 
"  Is  mamma  come  1 " 
"Yes,  my  darling.     I  am   here,"   said   her  mothef. 

•  How  do  you  fed  r* 

**  Perfectly  well,  mamma,  thank  you.     Now,  papa  !  * 
•*  One  moment  more,  my  love.     Now,  Percivale.** 
We  carried  her  to  the  spot  we  had  agreed  upon,  and 

*  Miscellaneous  Sonnets.     Part  L  A 


363  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

while  we  held  her  a  little  inclined  that  she  might  see 
the  better,  her  mother  undid  the  bandage  from  hei 
head. 

"  Hold  your  hands  over  her  eyes,  a  little  way  from 
them,"  I  said  to  her  as  she  untied  the  handkerchief, 
**  that  the  light  may  reach  them  by  degrees,  and  not 
blind  her  " 

Ethelwyn  did  so  for  a  few  moments,  then  removed 
them.  Still  for  a  moment  or  two  more,  it  was  plam 
from  her  look  of  utter  bewilderment,  that  all  was  a  con- 
fused mass  of  light  and  colour.  Then  she  gave  a  little 
cry,  and  to  my  astonishment,  almost  fear,  half  rose  to  a 
sitting  posture.  One  moment  more,  and  sJie  laid  herself 
gently  back,  and  wept  and  sobbed. 

And  now  I  may  admit  my  reader  to  a  share,  though 
at  best  but  a  dim  reflex  in  my  poor  words,  of  the  glory 
that  made  her  weep. 

Through  the  gothic-arched  door  in  the  battlemented 
wall,  which  stood  on  the  very  edge  of  the  precipitous 
descent,  so  that  nothing  of  the  descent  was  seen  and 
the  door  was  as  a  framework  to  the  picture,  Connie  saw 
a  great  gulf  at  her  feet,  full  to  the  brim  of  a  splendour 
of  light  and  colour.  Before  her  rose  the  great  ruins  of 
rock  and  castle,  the  ruin  of  rock  with  castle;  rough 
Etone  below,  clear  green  happy  grass  above,  even  to  the 
verge  ot  the  abrupt  and  awful  precipice ;  over  it  the 
sun  nier  sky  so  clear  that  it  must  have  been  clarified 
by  sorrow  and  thought ;  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  hun- 
dreds of  feet  below,  the  blue  waters  breaking  in  white 
upon  the  dark  gray  sands  ;  all  full  of  the  gladness  of  the 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  363 


sun  overflowing  in  speechless  delight,  and  reflected  in 
fresh  gladness  from  stone,  and  water,  and  flower,  like 
new  springs  of  light  rippling  forth  from  the  earth  itself 
to  swell  the  universal  tide  of  glory — all  this  seen  through 
the  narrow  gothic  archway  of  a  door  in  a  wall — up- 
down — on  either  hand.     But  the  main  marvel  was  the 
look  sheer  below  into  the  abyss  full  of  light,  and  air,  and 
colour,  its  sides  lined  with  rock  and  grass,  and  its  bottom 
lined  with  blue  ripples  and  sand.     Was  it  any  wondei 
that  my  Connie  should  cry  aloud  when  the  vision  dawned 
upon  her,  and  then  weep  to  ease  a  heart  ready  to  burst 
with  delight]     "O  Lord  God!'*  I  said,  almost  involun- 
tarily, "  thou  art  very  rich.     Thou  art  the  one  poet,  the 
one  maker.     We  worship  thee.     Make  but  our  souls  as 
full  of  glory  in  thy  sight  as  this  chasm  is  to  our  eyes 
glorious  with   the  forms  which   thou   hast   cloven  and 
carved  out  of  nothingness,  and  we  sliall  be  worthy  to 
worship  thee,  O  Lord,  our  God."     For  I  was  carried 
beyond  myself  with   delight,  and  with   sympathy  with 
Connie's  delight  and  with  the  calm  worship  of  gladness 
in  my  wife's  countenance.     But  when  my  eye  fell  on 
Wynnie,  I  saw  a  trouble  mingled  with  her  admiration, 
a  self-accusation,  I  think,  that  she  did  not  and  could  not 
enjoy  it  more  ;  and  when  I  turned  from  her,  there  were 
the  eyes  of  Percivale  fixed  on  me  in  wonderment ;  and 
for  the  moment  I  felt  as  David  must  have  felt  when,  in 
his  dance  of  undignified  delight  that  he  had  got  the  ark 
nome  again,  he  saw  the  contemptuous  eyes  of  Michal 
fixed  on  him  from  the  window.     But  I  could  not  leave 
it  so.     I  said  to  hin)-  -coldly  I  daresay, — 


3^4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr  Percivale ;  I  forgot  for  the  moment 
that  I  was  not  amongst  my  own  family.** 

Percivale  took  his  hat  ofif. 

**  Forgive  my  seemin.g  rudeness,  Mr  Walton.  I  was 
half  envying  and  half  won-dering.  You  would  not  be 
surprised  at  my  unconscious  behaviour  if  you  had  seen 
as  much  of  the  wrong  side  of  the  stuff  as  I  have  seen  in 
London." 

I  had  some  idea  of  what  he  meant ;  but  this  was  no 
time  to  enter  upon  a  discussion.     I  could  only  say, — 

"  My  heart  was  full,  Mr  Percivale,  and  I  let  it  over- 
flow." 

"  Let  me  at  least  share  in  its  overflow,"  he  rejoined, 
and  nothing  more  passed  on  the  subject 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  we  stood  in  absolute  silence. 
We  had  set  Connie  down  on  the  grass  again,  but  propped 
up  so  that  she  could  see  through  the  doorway.  And  she 
lay  in  still  ecstasy.  But  there  was  more  to  be  seen  ere 
we  descended.  There  was  the  rest  of  the  little  islet  with 
its  crop  of  down-grass,  on  which  the  horses  of  all  the 
knights  of  King  Arthur's  round  table  might  have  fed  for 
a  week— yes,  for  a  fortnight,  without,  by  any  means,  en- 
countering the  short  commons  of  war.  There  were  the 
ruins  of  the  castle  so  built  of  plates  of  the  laminated 
stcne  of  the  rocks  on  which  they  stood,  and  sc  woven  in, 
or  more  properly  incorporated  with,  the  outstanding 
rocks  themselves,  that  in  some  parts  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  tell  which  was  building  and  which  was  rock — the 
walls  themselves  seeming  like  a  growth  out  of  the  island 
itself,  so  perfectly  were  they  in  harmony  with,  and  \xk 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  36$ 

kind  the  same  as,  the  natural  ground  upon  which  and  <A 
which  they  had  been  constructed.  And  this  would  seem 
TO  me  to  be  the  perfection  of  architecture.  The  work  of 
man's  hands  should  be  so  in  harmony  with  the  place 
where  it  stands  that  it  must  look  as  if  it  had  grown  out 
of  the.  soil.  But  the  walls  were  in  some  parts  so  thin 
that  one  wondered  how  they  could  have  stood  so  long. 
They  must  have  been  built  before  the  time  of  any  for- 
midable artillery — enough  only  for  defence  from  arrows. 
But  then  the  island  was  nowhere  commanded,  and  its 
own  steep  cliffs  would  be  more  easily  defended  than  any 
erections  upon  it.  Clearly  the  intention  was  that  no 
enemy  should  thereon  find  rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot, 
for  if  he  was  able  to  land,  farewell  to  the  notion  of  any 
further  defence.  Then  there  was  outside  the  walls  the 
little  chapel — such  a  tiny  chapel !  of  which  little  more 
than  the  foundation  remained,  with  the  ruins  of  the  altar 
still  standing,  and  outside  the  chancel,  nestling  by  its 
wall,  a  coffin  hollowed  in  the  rock ;  then  the  church- 
yard a  little  way  off  full  of  graves,  which,  I  presume, 
would  have  vanished  long  ago  were  it  not  that  the  very 
graves  were  founded  on  the  rock.  There  still  stood  old 
worn-out  headstones  of  thin  slate,  but  no  memorials  were 
left  Then  there  was  the  fragment  of  arched  passage  under- 
ground laid  open  to  the  air  in  the  centre  of  the  islet ;  and 
last,  and  grandest  of  all,  the  awful  edges  of  the  rock, 
broken  by  time,  and  carved  by  the  winds  and  the  waters 
into  grotesque  shapes  and  threatening  forms.  Over  all  the 
surface  of  the  islet  we  carried  Connie,  and  trom  three 
sides  of  this  sea-fortress  she  looked  abroad  over  "  th« 


366  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


Atlantic's  levd  powers."  It  blew  a  gentle  ethereal 
breeze  on  the  top  ;  but  had  there  been  such  a  wind  as 
I  have  since  stood  against  on  that  fearful  citadel  of 
nature,  I  should  have  been  in  terror  lest  we  should  all  be 
blown  into  the  deep.  Over  the  edge  she  peeped  at 
th§  strange  fantastic  needle-rock,  and  round  the  .corner 
she  peeped  to  see  Wynnie  and  her  mother  seated  in 
what  they  call  Arthur's  chair — a  canopied  hollow  wrought 
in  the  plated  rock  by  the  mightiest  of  all  solvents — air 
and  water;  till  at  length  it  was  time  that  we  should  take 
our  leave  of  the  few  sheep  that  fed  over  the  place,  and 
issuing  by  the  gothic  door,  wind  away  down  the  danger- 
ous path  to  the  safe  ground  below. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  tie  up  your  eyes  again,  Con- 
nie ? "  I  said. 

'*Whyr'  she  asked,  in  wonderment  "There's 
nothing  higher  yet,  is  there  'i " 

"  No,  my  love.  If  there  were,  you  would  hardly  be 
able  for  it  to-day,  I  should  think.  It  is  only  to  keep  you 
from  being  frightened  at  the  precipice  as  you  go  down." 

**  But  I  shan't  be  frightened,  papa." 

•*  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

**  Because  you  are  going  to  carry  me." 

"  But  what  if  I  should  slip  ?     I  might,  you  know/' 

"  I  don't  mind.  I  shan't  mind  being  tumbled  over  the 
piecipice,  if  you  do  it.  I  shan't  be  to  blame,  and  I  'm 
sure  you  won't,  papa."  Then  she  drew  my  head  down 
and  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  If  I  get  as  much  more  by 
being  killed,  as  I  have  got  by  having  my  poor  back  hur^ 
I  'n  sure  it  will  be  well  worth  it" 


THE    OLD    CASTLE.  367 


I  tried  to  smile  a  reply,  for  I  could  not  speak  one. 
We  took  her  just  as  she  was,  and  with  some  tremor  on 
my  part,  but  not  a  single  slip,  we  bore  her  down  the 
winding  path,  her  face  showing  all  the  time  that,  instead 
of  being  afraid,  she  was  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  delight. 
My  wife,  I  could  see,  was  nervous,  however ;  and  she 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  we  were  once  more  at  th* 
foot. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  that's  over,"  she  said. 

**  So  am  I,"  I  returned  as  we  set  down  the  litter. 

"  Poor  papa  !  I  've  pulled  his  arms  to  pieces  I  and  Mr 
Percivale's  too  ! " 

Percivale  answered  first  by  taking  up  a  huge  piece  of 
stone.  Then  turning  towards  her,  he  said — "  Look  here, 
Miss  Connie ;  '*  and  flung  it  far  out  from  the  isthmus  on 
which  we  were  resting.  We  heard  it  strike  on  a  rock 
below,  and  then  fall  in  a  shower  of  fragments.  "  My 
arms  are  all  right,  you  see,"  he  said. 

Meantime,  Wynnie  had  scrambled  down  to  the  shore, 
where  we  had  not  yet  been.  In  a  few  minutes,  we  still 
lingering,  she  came  rui  ning  back  to  us  out  of  breath 
with  the  news — 

'*  Papa !  Mr  Percivale !  there 's  such  a  grand  cave 
down  there  !     It  goes  right  through  under  the  island." 

Connie  looked  so  eager,  that  Percivale  and  I  glanced 
at  each  other,  and  without  a  word,  lifted  her,  and  fol- 
lowed Wynnie.  It  was  a  little  way  that  we  had  to  carry 
her  down,  but  it  was  very  broken,  and  insomuch  more 
difficult  than  the  other.  At  length  we  stood  in  the 
cavern      What  a  contrast  to   the   vision    overhead  I— 


368  THE    SEABOAFD    PARISH. 

nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  cool,  dark  vault  of  the  cave, 
long  and  winding,  with  the  fresh  seaweed  lying  on  its 
pebbly  floor,  and  its  walls  wet  with  the  last  tide,  for 
every  tide  rolled  through  in  rising  and  falling — the  waters 
on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  islet  greeting  through  this 
cave ;  the  blue  shimmer  of  the  rising  sea,  and  the  forms 
of  huge  outlying  rocks,  looking  in  at  the  further  end, 
where  the  roof  rose  like  a  grand  cathedral  arch ;  and 
the  green  gleam  of  veins  rich  with  copper,  dashing  and 
streaking  the  darkness  in  gloomy  little  chapels,  where 
the  floor  of  heaped-up  pebbles  rose  and  ros-e  within  till  it 
wet  the  descending  roof.  It  was  like  a  going-down  from 
}'aradise  into  the  grave — but  a  cool,  friendly,  brown- 
lighted  grave,  which  even  in  its  darkest  recesses  bore  some 
witness  to  the  wind  of  God  outside,  in  the  occasional 
ripple  of  shadowed  light,  from  the  play  of  the  sun  on  the 
waves,  that,  fleeted  and  reflected,  wandered  across  its 
jagged  roof.  But  we  dared  not  keep  Connie  long  in  the 
damp  coolness ;  and  I  have  given  my  reader  quite  enough 
of  description  for  one  hour's  reading.  He  can  scarcely 
be  equal  to  more. 

My  invalids  had  now  beheld  the  sea  in  such  a  different 
aspect,  that  I  no  longer  feared  to  go  back  to  Kilkhaven. 
Thither  we  went  three  days  after,  and  at  my  invitatioi^ 
Percivale  took  Turner's  place  in  tlie  carriage. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

JOE  AND    HIS. TROUBLE. 

|0W  bright  the  yellow  shores  of  Kilkhaven 
looked  after  the  dark  sands  of  Tintagel! 
But  how  low  and  tame  its  highest  cliffs  after 
the  mighty  rampart  of  rocks  which  there  face 
the  sea  like  a  cordon  of  fierce  guardians  !  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  settle  down  again  in  what  had  begun  to  look 
like  home,  and  was  indeed  made  such  by  the  boisterous 
welcome  of  Dora  and  the  boys.  Connie's  baby  crowed 
aloud,  and  stretched  forth  her  chubby  arras  at  sight  of 
her.  The  wind  blew  gently  around  us,  full  both  of  the 
freshness  of  the  clean  waters  and  the  scents  of  the  down- 
grasses,  to  welcome  us  back.  And  the  dread  vision  of 
the  shore  had  now  receded  so  far  into  the  past,  that  it 
was  no  longer  able  to  hurt 

We  had  called  at  the  blacksmith's  house  on  our  way 
home,  and  found  that  he  v/as  so  far  better  as  to  be  work- 
ing at  his  forge  again.     His  mother  said  he  was  used 

a  A 


370  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

to  such  attacks,  and  soon  got  over  them.  I,  however, 
feared  that  they  indicated  an  approaching  break-down. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  she  said,  "  Joe  might  be  well  enough  i( 
be  liked.     It's  all  his  own  fault." 

"  What  do  you  meanT'  I  asked.  "I  cannot  believe 
rhat  your  son  is  in  any  way  guilty  of  his  own  illness." 

"He*s  a  well-benaved  lad,  my  Joe,"  she  answered; 
"  but  he  hasn't  learned  what  I  had  to  learn  long  ago." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked. 

**  To  make  up  his  mnid,  and  stick  to  it.  To  do  one 
thing  or  the  other." 

She  was  a  woman  with  a  long  upper  lip  and  a  judicial 
face,  and  as  she  spoke,  her  Hp  grew  longer  and  longer; 
and  when  she  closed  her  mouth  in  mark  of  her  own 
resolution,  that  lip  seemed  to  occupy  two-th>rds  of  all 
her  face  under  the  nose. 

•*  And  what  is  it  he  won't  do  ?" 

**  I  don't  mind  whether  he  does  it  or  not,  if  he  would 
only  make — up — ^his — mind — and — stick — to-  it." 

"  What  is  it  you  want  him  to  do,  then  1 " 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  do  it,  I'm  sure.  It 's  no  good  to 
me — and  wouldn't  be  much  to  him,  that  I  '11  be  bound. 
Howsomever,  he  must  please  himself." 

I  thought  it  not  very  wonderful  that  he  looked 
gloomy,  if  there  was  no  more  sunshine  for  him  at  home 
than  his  mother's  face  indicated.  Few  things  can  make 
a  man  so  strong  and  able  for  his  work  as  a  sun  indoors, 
whose  rays  are  smiles,  ever  ready  to  shine  upon  him  when 
he  opens  the  door, — the  face  of  wife  or  mother  or  sister. 
Now  his  motner's  face  certainly  was  not  sunny.      No 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  371 

doubt  it  must  have  shone  upon  him  when  he  was  a  baby. 
God  has  made  that  provision  for  babies,  who  need  sun- 
shine so  much  that  a  mother's  face  cannot  help  being 
sunny  to  them :  why  should  the  sunshine  depart  as  the 
child  grows  older] 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  not  ask.  But  I  fear  your 
Bon  is  very  far  from  well  Such  attacks  do  not  often 
occur  without  serious  mischief  somewhere.  And  if  there 
is  anj'thing  troubling  him,  he  is  less  likely  to  get  over 
it" 

"  If  he  would  let  somebody  make  up  his  mind  for  him, 
and  then  stick  to  it," 

"  Oh  !  but  that  is  impossible^  you  know.  A  man  must 
must  make  up  his  own  mind." 

"That's  just  what  he  won't  do." 

All  the  time  she  looked  naughty,  only  after  a  self- 
righteous  fashion.  It  was  evident  that  whatever  was  tht 
cause  of  it,  she  was  not  in  sympathy  with  her  son,  and 
therefore  could  not  help  him  out  of  any  difficulty  he 
might  be  in.  I  made  no  further  attempt  to  learn  from 
her  the  cause  of  her  son's  discomfort,  clearly  a  deeper 
cause  than  his  illness.  In  passing  his  workshop,  we 
stopped  for  a  m.oment,  and  I  made  an  arrangement  to 
meet  him  at  the  church  the  next  day. 

I  was  there  before  him,  and  found  that  he  had  done 
a  good  d<  al  since  we  left.  Little  remained  except  to 
get  the  keys  put  to  rights,  and  the  rods  attached  lo  the 
cranks  in  the  box.  To-day  he  was  to  bring  a  carpenter, 
a  cousin  of  his  own,  with  him.* 

They  soon  arrived,  and  a  small  consultation  followeci 


372  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


The  cousin  was  a  bright-eyed,  cheruby-cheeked  little  man, 
with  a  ready  smile  and  white  teeth :  I  thought  he  might 
help  me  to  understand  what  was  amiss  in  Joseph's  affairs. 
But  I  would  not  make  the  attempt  except  openly.  I 
therefore  said,  half  in  a  jocular  fashion,  as  with  gloomy, 
selfwithdrawn  countenance  the  smith  was  fitting  one 
loop  into  another  in  two  of  his  iron  rods, — 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  this  cousin  of  yours  to  look  a 
little  more  cheerful.  You  would  think  he  had  quarrelled 
with  the  sunshine." 

The  carpenter  showed  his  white  teeth  between  his 
rosy  lips. 

"Well,  sir,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  you  see  my  cousin 
Joe  is  not  Hke  the  rest  of  us.  He's  a  religious  man,  is 
Joe." 

**  But  I  don't  see  how  that  should  make  him  miser- 
able. It  hasn't  made  me  miserable.  I  hope  I'm  a 
religious  man  myself.  It  makes  me  happy  every  day  of 
my  life." 

"  Ah,  well,"  returned  the  carpenter,  in  a  thoughtful 
tone,  as  he  worked  away  gently  to  get  the  inside  out  of 
the  oak-chest  without  hurting  it,  "  I  don't  say  it 's  the 
religion,  for  I  don't  know  ;  but  perhaps  it 's  the  way  he 
takes  it  up.  He  don't  look  after  hisself  enough ;  he 's 
always  thinking  about  other  people,  you  see,  sir;  and 
it  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  if  you  don't  look  after  yourself 
why,  who  is  to  look  after  you  1  That 's  common  sense, 
/  think." 

It  was  a  curious  contrast — the  merry  friendly  face, 
mlixch  shone  good-fellowship  to  ail  mankind,  accusing 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  37J 

the  sombre,  pale,  sad,  severe,  even  somewhat  bitter 
countenance  beside  him,  of  thinking  too  much  about 
other  people,  and  too  little  about  himself.  Of  course 
it  might  be  correct  in  a  way.  There  is  all  the  difference 
between  a  comfortable,  healthy  inclination,  and  a  pained 
conscientious  principle.  It  was  a  smile  very  unlike  his 
cousin's  with  which  Joe  heard  his  remarks  on  him- 
self. 

"  But,**  I  said,  "  you  will  allow,  at  least,  that  if  every- 
body would  take  Joe's  way  of  it,  there  would  then  be  no 
occasion  for  taking  care  of  yourself** 

"  I  don't  see  why,  sir." 

**  Why,  because  everybody  would  take  care  of  every- 
body else." 

**  Not  so  well,  I  doubt,  sir." 

**  Yes,  and  a  great  deal  better.* 

"At  any  rate,  that's  a  long  way  off;  and  meantime, 
who's  to  take  care  of  the  odd  man  like  Joe  there,  that 
don't  look  after  hisselfl" 

«  Why,  God,  of  course  " 

**  Well,  there 's  just  where  I  'm  out  I  don't  know 
nothing  about  that  branch,  sir." 

I  saw  a  grateful  light  mount  up  in  Joe's  gloomy  eyes, 
as  I  spoke  thus  upon  his  side  of  the  question.  He  said 
nothing,  however;  and  his  cousin  volunteering  no 
further  information,  I  did  not  push  any  advantage  I 
might  have  gained. 

At  noon  I  made  them  leave  their  work,  and  come 
home  with  me  to  have  their  dinr.ei  :  they  hoped  to 
finish  the  job  before  dusk      Hirrv  Cobb  and  I  droDDcd 


374  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

behind,  and  Joe  Harper  walked  on  in  front,  apparently 
sunk  in  meditation. 

Scarcely  were  we  out  of  the  churchyard,  and  on  the 
road  leading  to  the  rectory,  when  I  saw  the  sexton'i 
daughter  meeting  us.  She  had  almost  come  up  to  Joe 
before  he  saw  her,  for  his  gaze  was  bent  on  the  ground, 
and  he  started.  They  shook  hands  in  what  seemed  to 
me  an  odd,  constrained,  yet  familiar  fashion,  and  then 
stood  as  if  they  wanted  to  talk,  but  without  speaKing. 
Harry  and  I  passed,  both  with  a  nod  of  recognition  to 
the  young  woman,  but  neither  of  us  had  the  ill  manners 
to  look  behind.  I  glanced  at  Hairy,  and  he  answered 
me  with  a  queer  look.  When  we  reached  the  turning 
that  would  hide  them  from  our  view,  I  looked  back 
almost  involuntarily,  and  there  they  were  still  standing. 
But  before  we  reached  the  door  of  the  rectory,  Joe  got 
up  with  us. 

There  was  something  remarkable  in  the  appearance 
of  Agnes  Coombes,  the  sexton's  daughter.  She  was 
about  six  and  twenty,  I  should  imagine,  the  youngest 
of  the  family,  with  a  sallow,  rather  sickly  complexion, 
somewhat  sorrowful  eyes  a  smile  rare  and  sweet,  a  fine 
figure,  tall  and  slender,  and  a  graceful  gait.  I  now  saw, 
I  thought,  a  good  hair's-breadth  further  into  the  smith's 
affairs.  Beyond  the  hair's-breadth,  however,  all  was 
dark.  But  I  saw  likewise  that  the  well  of  truth,  whence 
1  might  draw  the  whole  business,  must  be  tlie  giil's 
mother. 

Alter  the  men  hai  had  their  dinner  and  rested  a 
while,  they  went  back  to  the  church,  and  I  went  to  the 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  375 


sexton's  cottage.  I  found  the  old  man  seated  at  the 
window,  with  his  pot  of  beer  on  the  sill,  and  an  empty 
plate  beside  it 

**  Come  in,  sir/'  he  said,  rising,  as  I  put  my  head  in  at 
the  door.  "  The  mis'ess  ben't  in,  but  she  '11  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes." 

"  Oh,  it 's  of  no  consequence/*  I  said.  "  Are  they  all 
welH" 

"  All  comfortable,  sir.  It  be  fine  dry  weather  for  them, 
this,  sir.     It  be  in  winter  it  be  worst  for  them." 

"  But  it 's  a  snug  enough  shelter  you  *ve  got  here.  It 
seems  such,  anyhow ;  though,  to  be  sure,  it  is  the  blasts 
of  winter  that  find  out  the  weak  places  both  in  house 
and  body." 

"  It  ben't  the  wind  touch  them^  he  said ;  **  they  be  safe 
enough  from  the  ^ind.  It  be  the  wet,  sir.  There  ben't 
much  snow  in  these  parts  ;  but  when  it  du  come,  that  be 
very  bad  for  them,  poor  things  I " 

Could  it  be  that  he  was  harping  on  the  old  theme  again  t 

"  But  at  least  this  cottage  keeps  out  the  wet,"  I  said. 
"  If  not,  we  must  have  it  seen  to." 

"  This  cottage  du  well  enough,  sir.  It  '11  last  my  time, 
anyhow." 

'*  Then  why  are  you  pitying  your  family  for  having  to 
bve  in  itl" 

**  Bless  your  heart,  sir !  It 's  not  them.  They  du  well 
enough.  It 's  my  people  out  yonder.  You  've  got  the 
souls  to  look  after,  and  I  've  got  the  bodies.  That  "s 
what  it  be,  sir.     To  be  sure  ! " 

The  last  exclamation  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  impatient 


37^  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 

surprise  at  my  stupidity  in  giving  all  my  thoughts  and 
sympathies  to  the  living,  and  none  to  the  dead.  I  pur- 
sued the  subject  no  further,  but  as  I  lay  in  bed  that 
night,  it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  as  a  lovable  kind  of 
hallucination  in  which  the  man  indulged.  He  too  had 
an  office  in  the  church  of  God,  and  he  would  magnify 
that  office.  He  could  not  bear  that  there  should  be  no 
further  outcome  of  his  labour;  that  the  burying  of  the 
dead  out  of  sight  should  be  "  the  be-all  and  the  end-alL" 
He  was  God's  vicar,  the  gardener  in  God's  Acre,  as  the 
Germans  call  the  churchyard.  When  all  others  had  for- 
saken the  dead,  he  remained  their  friend,  caring  for  what 
little  comfort  yet  remained  possible  to  them.  Hence  in 
all  changes  of  air  and  sky  above,  he  attributed  to  them 
some  knowledge  of  the  same,  and  some  share  in  their 
consequences  even  down  in  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 
It  was  his  way  of  keeping  up  the  relation  between  the 
living  and  the  dead.  Finding  I  made  him  no  reply,  he 
took  up  the  word  again. 

"  You  Ve  got  your  part,  sir,  and  I  *ve  got  mine.  You 
jp  into  the  pulpit,  and  I  down  into  the  grave.  But  it'll 
)e  all  the  same  by  and  by." 

"  I  hope  it  will,"  I  answered.  "  But  when  you  do  go 
down  into  your  own  grave,  you  '11  know  a  good  deal  less 
about  it  than  you  do  now.  You  'H  find  you  've  got  other 
things  to  think  about.  But  here  comes  your  wife.  She'll 
talk  about  the  living  rather  than  the  dead." 

"  That's  natural,  sir.  She  brought  'em  to  life,  and  I 
buried  'em — at  least  the  best  part  of  *em.  If  only  I  had 
the  other  two  safe  down  with  the  restl" 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE  377 

I  remembered  what  the  old  woman  had  told  me — 
that  she  had  two  boys  in  the  sea ;  and  I  knew  therefore 
what  he  meant  He  regarded  his  drowned  boys  as  still 
tossed  about  in  the  weary  wet  cold  ocean,  and  would 
have  gladly  laid  them  to  rest  in  the  warm  dry  church- 
yard. 

He  wiped  a  tear  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  with  the 
back  of  his  hand,  and  saying,  "  Well,  I  must  be  off  to 
my  gardening,**  left  me  with  his  wife.  I  saw  then  that, 
humourist  as  the  old  man  might  be,  his  humour,  like 
that  of  all  true  humourists,  lay  close  about  the  wells  of 
weeping. 

"  The  old  man  seems  a  little  out  of  sorts,'*  I  said  to 
his  wife. 

"Well,  sir,**  she  answered,  with  her  usual  gentleness, 
a  gentleness  which  obedient  suffering  had  perfected, 
"this  be  the  day  he  buried  our  Nancy,  this  day  two 
years ;  and  to-day  Agnes  be  come  home  from  her  work 
poorly ;  and  the  two  things  together  they  've  upset  him 
a  bit.'* 

"  I  met  Agnes  coming  this  way.     Where  is  she  ?  ** 

"  I  believe  she  be  in  the  churchyard,  sir.  I  've  been 
lo  the  doctor  about  her.** 

"  I  hope  it's  nothing  serious." 

**  I  hope  not,  sir ;  but  you  see — four  on  *em,  sir  I** 

"Well,  she's  in  God*s  hands,  you  know.** 

"That  she  be,  sir.'* 

"1  want  to  ask  you  about  something,  Mrs  Coombes." 

"What  be  that,  sir  ]  If  I  can  tell,  I  will,  you  may  be 
fcwe,  sir" 


378  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  I  want  to  know  what's  the  matter  with  Joe  Harper, 
the  blacksmith." 

"  They  du  say  it  be  a  consumption,  sir.* 

**  But  what  has  he  got  on  his  mind  ? " 

**  He's  got  nothing  on  his  mind,  sir.  He  be  as  good 
a  by  as  ever  stepped,  I  assure  you,  sir." 

"  But  I  am  sure  there  is  something  or  other  on  his 
mind.  He  's  not  so  happy  as  he  should  be.  He 's  not 
the  man,  it  seems  to  me,  to  be  unhappy  because  he 's 
ill.  A  man  like  him  would  not  be  miserable  because  he 
was  going  to  die.  It  might  make  him  look  sad  some- 
times, but  not  gloomy  as  he  looks." 

**  Well,  sir,  I  believe  you  be  right,  and  perhaps  I  know 
summat.  But  it's  part  guessing. — I  believe  my  Agnes 
and  Joe  Harper  are  as  fond  upon  one  another  as  any 
two  in  the  county." 

**  Are  they  not  going  to  be  married  then  I " 

"There  be  the  pint,  sir.  I  don't  believe  Joe  ever 
said  a  word  o'  the  sort  to  Aggy.  She  never  could  ha* 
kep  it  from  me,  sir." 

*'  Why  doesn't  he  then  ?" 

"That's  the  pint  again,  sir.  All  as  knows  him  says 
it  *s  because  he  be  in  such  bad  health,  and  he  thinks  he 
oughtn't  to  go  marrying  with  one  foot  in  the  grave. 
He  never  said  so  to  me ;  but  I  think  very  likely  that 
be  it" 

"  For  that  matter,  Mrs  Coombes,  we've  all  got  ona 
foot  in  the  grave,  I  think." 

**  That  be  very  true,  sir." 

**  And  what  does  your  daughter  think t* 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  379 


**  I  believe  she  thinks  the  same.  And  so  they  go  on 
talking  to  each  other,  quiet-like,  like  old  married  folks» 
not  like  lovers  at  all,  sir.  But  I  can't  help  fancying  it 
have  something  to  do  with  my  Aggy's  pale  face.** 

**  And  something  to  do  with  Joe's  pale  face  too,  Mrs 
Coombes,"  I  said.  "Thank  you.  You've  told  me 
more  than  I  expected.  It  explains  everything.  I  must 
have  it  out  with  Joe  now." 

•*  Oh  deary  me  !  sir,  don't  go  and  tell  him  I  said  any- 
thing, as  if  I  wanted  him  to  marry  my  daughter." 

**  Don't  you  be  afraid.  I  *11  take  good  care  of  that. 
And  don't  fancy  I'm  fond  of  meddling  with  other 
people's  afiairs.  But  this  is  a  case  in  which  I  ought  ta 
do  something.     Joe 's  a  fine  fellow." 

**  That  he  be,  sir.  I  couldn't  wish  a  better  for  a  son- 
in-law." 

I  put  on  my  hat. 

**  You  won't  get  me  into  no  trouble  witi  Joe,  will  ye 
sir?" 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,  Mrs  Coombes.  I  should  be 
doing  a  great  deal  more  harm  than  good  if  I  said  a 
word  to  make  him  doubt  you." 

I  went  straight  to  the  church.  There  were  the  two 
men  working  away  in  the  shado\A7  tower,  and  there  was 
Agnes  standing  beside,  knitting  like  her  mother,  so 
quiet,  so  solemn  even,  that  it  did  indeed  look  as  if  she 
were  a  long-married  wife,  hovering  about  her  husband 
at  his  work.  Harry  was  saying  something  to  her  as  I 
went  in,  but  when  they  saw  me  they  were  silent,  and 
Agnes  gently  withdrew. 


380  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  get  through  to-night  1"  I 
asked. 

"  Sure  of  it,  sir,"  answered  Harry. 

"  You  shouldn't  be  sure  of  anything,  Harry.  We  are 
told  in  the  New  Testament  that  we  ought  to  say  7/  thi 
Lord  will"  said  Joe. 

**  Now,  Joe,  you  're  too  hard  upon  Harry,"  I  said. 
"  You  don't  think  that  the  Bible  means  to  pull  a  man 
up  every  step  like  that,  till  he 's  afraid  to  speak  a  word  1 
It  was  about  a  long  journey  and  a  year's  residence  that 
the  Apostle  James  was  speaking." 

"  No  doubt,  sir.  But  the  principle  *s  the  same. 
Harry  can  no  more  be  sure  of  finishing  his  work  before 
it  be  dark,  than  those  people  could  be  of  going  their 
long  journey." 

"  That  is  perfectly  true.  But  you  are  taking  the  letter 
for  the  spirit,  and  that,  I  suspect,  in  more  ways  than 
one.  The  religion  does  not  lie  in  not  being  sure  about 
anything,  but  in  a  loving  desire  that  the  will  of  God  in 
the  matter,  whatever  it  be,  may  be  done.  And  if  Harry 
has  not  learned  yet  to  care  about  the  will  of  God,  what 
is  the  good  of  coming  down  upon  him  that  way,  as  if 
that  would  teach  him  in  the  least  When  he  loves  God, 
then,  and  not  till  then,  will  he  care  about  his  will.  Nor 
does  the  religion  he  in  saying,  if  the  Lord  willy  every 
time  anything  is  to  be  done.  It  is  a  most  dangerous 
thing  to  use  sacred  words  often.  It  makes  them  so 
common  to  our  ear  that  at  length,  when  used  most 
solemnly,  they  have  not  half  the  effect  they  ought  to  have, 
and  that  is  a  serious  loss.     What  the  Apostle  means  i^ 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  3S1 

that  we  should  always  be  in  the  mood  of  looking  up  to 
God  and  having  regard  to  his  will,  not  always  writing 
D.V.  for  instance,  as  so  many  do — most  irreverently,  I 
think — ^using  a  Latin  contraction  for  the  beautiful  words, 
just  as  if  they  were  a  charm,  or  as  if  God  would  take 
offence  if  they  did  not  make  the  salvo  of  acknowledg- 
ment It  seems  to  me  quite  heathenish.  Our  hearts 
ought  ever  to  be  in  the  spirit  of  those  words ;  our  lips 
ought  to  utter  them  rarely.  Besides,  there  are  some 
things  a  man  might  be  pretty  sure  the  Lord  wills." 

**  It  sounds  fine,  sir ;  but  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  under- 
stand what  you  mean  to  say.  It  sounds  to  me  like  a 
darkening  of  wisdom.** 

I  saw  I  had  irritated  him,  and  so  had  in  some  measure 
lost  ground.     But  Harry  struck  in — 

"  How  can  you  say  that  now,  Joe  %  J  know  what  i:he 
parson  means  well  enough,  and  everybody  knows  I  'ain't 
got  half  the  brains  you  've  got." 

**  The  reason  is,  Harry,  that  he  'r  got  something  in  his 
head  that  stands  in  the  way.*' 

"  And  there 's  nothing  in  my  head  to  stand  in  the  way!" 
returned  Harry,  laughing. 

This  made  me  laugh  too,  and  even  Joe  could  not 
help  a  sympathetic  grin.  By  this  time  it  was  getting 
dark. 

**  I  *m  afraid,  Harry,  after  all,  you  won't  get  through 
to-night'*  ' 

**  I  begin  to  think  so  too,  sir.  And  there  *s  Joe  saying, 
*  I  told  you  so/  over  and  over  to  himself,  though  he  won't 
say  it  out  hke  a  man." 


38a  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


Joe  anawered  only  with  another  grin. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Harry,"  I  said — "you  must 
come  again  on  Monday.  And  on  your  way  home 
just  look  in  and  tell  Joe*s  mother  that  I  have  kept 
him  over  to-morrow.  The  change  will  do  him 
good." 

"No,  sir,  that  can't  be.  I  haven't  got  a  clean 
shirt." 

"  You  can  have  a  shirt  of  mine,"  I  said.  "  But  I  'm 
afraid  you  11  want  your  Sunday  clothes." 

"  I  '11  bring  them  for  you,  Joe — before  you  're  up,"  in- 
terposed Harry.  "  And  then  you  can  go  to  church  with 
Aggy  Coombes,  you  know." 

Here  was  just  what  I  wanted. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Harry,"  said  Joe  angrily. 
"You're  talking  of  what  you  don't  know  anything 
about." 

"  Well,  Joe,  I  ben't  a  fool,  if  I  ben't  so  religious  as 
you  be.  You  ben't  a  bad  fellow,  though  you  be  a  Me- 
thodist, and  I  ben't  a  fool,  though  I  be  Harry  Cobb." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Harry  ?    Do  hold  your  tongue." 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  mean  first,  and  then  I  '11 
hold  my  tongue.  I  mean  this — that  nobody  with  two 
eyes,  or  one  eye,  for  that  matter,  in  his  head,  could  help 
seeing  the  eyes  you  and  Aggy  make  at  each  other,  and 
why  you  don't  port  your  helm  and  board  her — I  won't 
say  it  *s  more  than  I  know,  but  I  du  say  it  be  more  than 
I  think  be  fair  to  the  young  woman." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Harry." 

**  I  baid  I  would  when  I  'd  answered  you  as  to  what  1 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLK.  38J 

meaned.  So  no  more  at  present ;  but  I  '11  be  over  with 
your  clothes  afore  you  're  up  in  the  morning." 

As  Harry  spoke  he  was  busy  gathering  his  tools. 

''  They  won't  be  in  the  way,  will  they,  sir  ? "  he  said, 
as  he  heaped  them  together  in  the  furthest  comer  of  the 
tower, 

"  Not  in  the  least/'  I  returned.  **  If  I  had  my  way,  all 
the  tools  used  in  building  the  church  should  be  carved 
on  the  posts  and  pillars  of  it,  to  indicate  the  sacredness 
of  labour,  and  the  worship  of  God  that  lies,  not  in  build- 
ing the  church  merely,  but  in  every  honest  trade  honestl/ 
pursued  for  the  good  of  mankind  and  the  need  of  the 
workman.  For  a  necessity  of  God  is  laid  upon  every 
workman  as  well  as  on  St  Paul.  Only  St  Paul  saw  it, 
and  every  workman  doesn't,  Harry.** 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  like  that  way  of  it  I  almost 
think  I  could  be  a  little  bit  religious  after  your  way  of  it, 
sir." 

*  Almost,  Harry  1"  growled  Joe,  not  unkindly. 

"  Now  you  hold  your  tongue,  Joe,"  I  said.  "  Leave 
Harry  to  me.  You  may  take  him,  if  you  like,  after  I  've 
done  with  him." 

Laughing  merrily,  but  making  no  other  reply  than  a 
hearty  good-night.  Harry  strode  away  out  of  the  church, 
and  Joe  and  I  went  home  together. 

When  he  had  had  his  tea,  I  asked  him  to  go  out  with 
lae  for  a  walk. 

The  sun  was  shining  aslant  upon  the  downs  from  over 
the  sea,  AVe  rose  out  of  the  shadowy  hollow  to  the 
•unlit  brow.    I  was  a  little  m  advance  of  Joe.    Happen- 


THE    SEA150ARD    PARISH. 


iv\g  to  turn,  I  saw  the  light  full  on  his  head  and  face, 
while  the  rest  of  his  body  had  not  yet  emerged  from  the 
shadow. 

'*  Stop,  Joe,"  I  said.  "  I  want  to  see  you  so  for  a 
moment." 

He  stood — a  little  surprised. 

"  You  look  just  like  a  man  rising  from  the  dead,  Joe," 
I  said. 

*'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  he  returned. 

"  I  will  describe  yourself  to  you.  Your  head  and  face 
are  full  of  sunlight,  the  rest  of  your  body  is  still  buried 
in  the  shadow.  Look  ;  I  will  stand  where  you  are  now  ; 
and  you  come  here.     You  will  soon  see  what  I  mean." 

We  changed  places.  Joe  stared  for  a  moment.  The;i 
his  face  brightened. 

**  I  see  what  you  mean,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  fancy  you 
don't  mean  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  but  the  resur- 
rection of  righteousness." 

"  I  do,  Joe.  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  the  whole 
history  of  the  Christian  life  is  a  series  of  such  resurrec 
tions?  Every  time  a  man  bethinks  himself  that  he  is 
not  walking  in  the  light,  that  he  has  been  forgetting  him- 
self, and  must  repent,  that  he  has  been  asleep  and  must 
awake,  that  he  has  been  letting  his  garments  trail,  and 
must  gird  up  the  loins  of  his  mind — every  time  this  takes 
place,  there  is  a  resurrection  in  the  world.  Yes,  Joe  ; 
and  every  time  that  a  man  finds  that  his  heart  is  troubled, 
that  he  is  not  rejoicing  in  God,  a  resurrection  must 
follow  —  a  resurrection  out  of  the  night  of  troubled 
thoughts  into  the  gladness  of  the  truth.     For  the  truth 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  $S$ 

is,  and  ever  was,  and  ever  must  be,  gladness,  howevei 
much  the  souls  on  which  it  shines  may  be  obscured  by 
the  clouds  of  sorrow,  troubled  by  the  thunders  of  fear, 
or  shot  through  with  the  lightnings  of  pain.  Now,  Joe, 
will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  you  are  like — I  do  not 
know  your  thoughts;  I  am  only  judging  from  your 
words  and  looks?" 

"  You  may  if  you  like,  sir,"  answered  Joe,  a  little 
sulkily.     But  I  was  not  to  be  repelled. 

I  stood  up  in  the  sunlight,  so  that  my  eyes  caughi 
only  about  half  the  sun's  disc.  Then  I  bent  my  face 
iiuvards  the  earth. 

**  What  part  of  me  is  the  light  shining  on  now,  Joe  P 

**  Just  the  top  of  your  head,"  answered  he. 

"  There,  then,"  I  returned,  "  that  is  just  what  you  are 
like — a  man  with  the  light  on  his  head,  but  not  on  hU 
face.  And  why  not  on  your  face  1  Because  you  hold 
your  head  down." 

"  Isn't  it  possible,  sir,  that  a  man  might  lose  the  light 
on  his  face,  as  you  put  it,  by  doing  his  duty  ? " 

"  That  is  a  difficult  question,"  1  replied.  "  I  must 
think  before  I  answer  it." 

"  I  mean,"  added  Joe — "  mightn't  his  duty  be  a  pain- 
ful one  T' 

*'  Yes.  But  I  think  that  would  rather  etherealize  than 
destroy  the  light.  Behind  the  sorrow  would  spring  a 
yet  greater  light  from  the  very  duty  itself  1  have  ex- 
pressed myself  badly,  but  you  will  see  what  I  mean.^ 
To  be  frank  with  you,  Joe,  I  do  not  see  that  liglit'in 
your  face.     Therefore  I  think  something  must  be  wrong 


386  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

with  you.  Remember  a  good  man  is  not  necessarily  in 
(he  right.  St  Peter  was  a  good  man,  yet  our  Lord  called 
him  Satan — and  meant  it  of  course,  for  he  never  said 
what  he  did  not  mean." 

"  How  can  I  be  wrong  when  all  my  trouble  comes 
from  doing  my  duty — nothing  else,  as  far  as  I  know  1  ** 

"Then,"  I  replied,  a  sudden  light  breaking  in  on  my 
mind,  "  I  doubt  whether  what  you  suppose  to  be  your 
duty  can  be  your  duty.  If  it  were,  I  do  not  think  it 
would  make  you  so  miserable.  At  least — I  may  be 
wrong,  but  I  venture  to  think  so.*' 

"  What  is  a  man  to  go  by,  then  I  If  he  thinks  a  thing 
b  his  duty,  is  he  not  to  do  it  1  '* 

*'  Most  assuredly — until  he  knows  better.  But  it  is  of 
the  greatest  consequence  whether  the  supposed  duty  be 
the  will  of  God  or  the  invention  of  one's  own  fancy  or 
mistaken  judgment  A  real  duty  is  always  something 
right  in  itself.  The  duty  a  man  makes  his  for  the  time,  by 
supposing  it  to  be  a  duty,  may  be  something  quite  wrong 
in  itself.  The  duty  of  a  Hindoo  widow  is  to  burn  her- 
self on  the  body  of  her  husband.  But  that  duty  lasts 
no  longer  than  till  she  sees  that,  not  being  the  will  of 
God,  it  is  not  her  duty.  A  real  duty,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  a  necessity  of  the  human  nature,  without  seeing  and 
doing  which  a  man  can  never  attain  to  the  truth  and 
blessedness  of  his  own  being.  It  was  the  duty  of  the 
early  hermits  to  encourage  the  growth  of  vermin  upon 
their  bodies,  for  they  supposed  that  was  pleasing  to  God ; 
but  they  could  not  fare  so  well  as  if  they  had  seen  the 
truth  that  the  will  of  God  was  cleanliness.     And  ihere 


JOE    AND    HIS    TROUBLE.  387 

may  be  far  more  seiious  tbing-s  done  by  Christian  people 
against  the  will  of  God,  in  the  fancy  of  doing  their  duty, 
than  such  a  trifle  as  swarming  with  worms.  In  a  word, 
thinking  a  thing  is  your  duty  makes  it  your  duty  only  till 
you  know  better.  And  the  prime  duty  of  every  man  is  to 
seek  and  find,  that  he  may  do,  the  will  of  God." 

"  But  do  you  think,  sir,  that  a  man  is  likely  to  be 
doing  what  he  ought  not,  if  he  is  doing  what  he  don't 
like?" 

"Notf^Hkely,  I  allow.     But  there  maybe  ambition 
in  it     A  man  must  not  want  to  be  better  than  the  right 
That  is  the  delusion  of  the  anchorite — a  delusion  in  which 
the  man  forgets  the  rights  of  others  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  sanctity." 

"  It  might  be  for  the  sake  of  another  person,  and  not 
for  the  person's  own  sake  at  all." 

"  It  might  be ;  but  except  it  were  the  will  of  God  for 
that  other  person,  it  would  be  doing  him  or  her  a  real 
injury." 

We  were  coming  gradually  towards  what  I  wanted  to 
make  the  point  in  question.  I  wished  him  to  tell  me  all 
about  it  himself,  however,  for  I  knew  that  while  advice 
given  on  request  is  generally  disregarded,  to  offer  advice 
unasked  is  worthy  only  of  a  fool. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  know  the  will  of  God  in  every 
case  1 "  asked  Joe, 

"  By  looking  at  the  general  laws  of  life,  and  obeying 
them — except  there  be  anything  special  in  a  particulai 
case  to  bring  it  vnder  a  higher  law." 

"Ah  1  but  that  be  just  what  there  is  here.* 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


**  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  that  may  be ;  but  the  special 
conduct  may  not  be  right  for  the  special  case  for  all  that. 
The  speciality  of  the  case  may  not  be  even  sufficient  to 
take  it  from  under  the  ordinary  rule.  But  it  is  of  no 
use  talking  generals.  Let  us  come  to  particulars.  If 
you  can  trust  me,  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  we  may  be 
able  to  let  some  light  in.  I  am  sure  there  is  darkness 
somewhere.'* 

"I  will  turn  it  over  in  my  mind,  sir;  and  if  I  can 
bring  myself  to  talk  about  it,  I  will  I  would  rather  tel 
you  than  any  one  else-.*' 

I  said  no  more.  We  watched  a  c^lorious  sunset- 
there  never  v/am  a  grander  place  loi  sunsets — and  went 
hont. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  SMALL  ADVENTURE. 

HE  next  morning  Harry  came  with  the  clothes. 
But  Joe  did  not  go  to  church.     Neither  did 
Agnes  make  her  appearance  that  morning. 
They  were  both  present  at  the  evening  ser- 
vice, however. 

When  we  came  out  of  church,  it  was  cloudy  and  dark, 
and  the  wind  was  blowing  cold  from  the  sea.  The  sky 
was  covered  with  one  cloud,  but  the  waves  tossing  them- 
selves against  the  rocks,  flashed  whiteness  out  of  the 
general  gloom.  As  the  tide  rose  the  wind  increased. 
It  was  a  night  of  surly  temper — hard  and  gloomy.  Not 
a  star  cracked  the  blue  above — there  was  no  blue ;  and 
the  wind  wasgurly:  I  once  heard  that  word  in  Scotlandr 
and  never  forgot  it 

After  one  of  our  usual  gatherings  in  Connie's  room, 
which  were  much  shorter  here  because  of  the  evening  e^t^ 
vice  in  summer,  I  withdrew  till  supper  should  be  ready. 


393  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Now  I  have  always  had,  as  I  think  I  have  incidentally 
stated  before,  a  certain  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  surly 
aspects  of  nature.  When  I  was  a  young  man  this  took 
form  in  opposition  and  defiance ;  since  I  had  begun  to 
grow  old  the  form  had  changed  into  a  sense  of  safety. 
I  welcomed  such  aspects,  partly  at  least,  because  they 
roused  my  faith  to  look  through  and  beyond  the  small 
region  of  human  conditions  in  which  alone  the  storm 
can  be  and  blow,  and  thus  induced  a  feeling  like  that  ol 
the  child  who  lies  in  his  warm  crib  and  listens  to  the 
howling  of  one  of  these  same  storms  outside  the  strong- 
built  house  which  yet  trembles  at  its  fiercer  onsets  :  the 
house  is  not  in  danger  j  or,  if  it  be,  that  is  his  father's 
])usiness,  not  his.  Hence  it  came  that,  after  supper,  I 
put  on  my  great-coat  and  travelling  cap,  and  went  out 
into  the  ill-tempered  night — sneaking  of  it  in  its  human 
symbolism. 

I  meant  to  have  a  stroll  down  to  the  breakwater,  of 
which  I  have  yet  said  little,  but  which  was  a  favourite 
resort  both  of  myself  and  my  children.  At  the  further 
end  of  it,  always  covered  at  high  water,  was  an  outlying 
cluster  of  low  rocks,  in  the  heart  of  which  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  a  noble-hearted  Christian  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  had  constructed  a  bath  of  graduated  depth — an 
open-air  swimming  pool — the  only  really  safe  place  fof 
men  who  were  swimmers  to  bathe  in.  Thither  I  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  my  two  little  men  every  morn- 
ing, and  bathing  with  them,  that  I  might  develop 
the  fish  that  was  in  them ;  for,  as  George  Herbert 
says — 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURB.  391 

Man  is  everything. 
And  more  :  he  is  a  tree,  yet  bears  no  fruit  ( 
A  beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more ;" 

and  he  might  have  gone  on  to  say  that  he  is,  or  should 
be,  a  fish  as  well 

It  will  seem  strange  to  any  reader  who  can  recall  the 
position  of  my  Connie's  room,  that  the  nearest  way  to 
the  breakwater  should  be  through  that  room ;  but  so  it 
was.  I  mention  the  fact  because  I  want  my  readers  to 
understand  a  certain  peculiarity  of  the  room.  By  the 
side  of  the  window  which  looked  out  upon  the  break- 
water was  a  narrow  door,  apparently  of  a  closet  or  cup- 
board, which  communicated,  however,  with  a  narrow, 
curving,  wood-built  passage,  leading  into  a  little  wooden 
hut,  the  walls  of  which  were  by  no  means  impervious  to 
the  wind,  for  they  were  formed  of  outside-planks,  with 
the  bark  still  upon  them.  From  this  hut  one  or  two  little 
windows  looked  seaward,  and  a  door  led  out  on  the  bit 
of  sward  in  which  lay  the  flower-bed  under  Connie's 
window.  From  this  spot  again  a  door  in  the  low 
wall  and  thick  hedge  led  out  on  the  downs,  where  a  path 
wound  along  the  cliffs  that  formed  the  side  of  the  bay, 
till,  descending  under  the  storm-tower,  it  brought  you  to 
the  root  of  the  breakwater. 

This  mole  stretched  its  long  strong  low  back  to  a  rock 
a  good  way  out,  breaking  the  force  of  the  waves,  and 
rendering  the  channel  of  a  small  river,  that  here  flowed 
into  the  sea  across  the  sands  from  the  mouth  of  the  canal, 
a  refuge  from  the  Atlantic  But  it  was  a  roadway  often 
hard  to  reach.     In  fair  weather  even,  the  wind  falling  as 


393  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  vessel  rounded  the  point  of  the  breakwater  into  the 
calm  of  the  projecting  headlands,  the  under-current  would 
sometimes  dash  her  helpless  on  the  rocks.  During  all 
this  heavenly  summer  there  had  been  no  thought  or  fear 
of  any  such  disaster.  The  present  night  was  a  hmt  of 
what  weather  would  yet  come. 

When  I  went  into  Connie's  room,  I  found  her  lying  in 
bed  a  very  picture  of  peace.  But  my  entrance  destroyed 
the  picture. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  why  have  you  got  your  coat  onl 
Surely  you  are  not  going  out  to-night.  The  wind  is 
blowing  dreadfully." 

"  Not  very  dreadfully,  Connie.  It  blew  much  worse 
the  night  we  found  your  baby." 

"  But  it  is  very  dark." 

"  I  allow  that ;  but  there  is  a  glimmer  from  the  sea, 
I  am  only  going  on  the  breakwater  for  a  few  minutes. 
You  know  I  like  a  stormy  night  quite  as  much  as  a  fine 
one." 

"  I  shall  be  miserable  till  you  come  home,  papa.* 

"  Nonsense,  Connie.  You  don't  think  your  fathet 
hasn't  sense  to  take  care  of  himself  I  Or  rather,  Connie, 
for  I  grant  that  is  poor  ground  of  comfort,  you  don't 
think  I  can  go  anywhere  without  my  Father  to  take  care 
of  me  r 

"  But  there  is  no  occasion — is  there,  papa  ?** 

*^  Do  you  think  I  should  be  better  pleased  with  my 
boys  if  they  shrunk  fi-om  everything  involving  the  least 
possibility  of  danger  because  there  was  no  occasion  for 
it?     That  is  jujl  the  way  to  make  cowards.     And  I  am 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  393 

certain  God  would  not  like  his  children  to  indulge  in 
such  moods  of  self-preservation  as  that  He  might  well 
be  ashamed  of  them.  The  fearful  are  far  more  likely 
to  meet  with  accidents  than  the  courageous.  But  really, 
Connie,  I  anri  almost  ashamed  of  talking  so.  It  is  all 
your  fault.  There  is  positively  no  ground  for  appre- 
hension, and  I  hope  you  won't  spoil  my  walk  by  the 
thought  that  my  foohsh  little  girl  is  frightened," 

"  I  will  be  good — indeed  I  will,  papa,"  she  said,  hold- 
ing up  her  mouth  to  kiss  me. 

I  left  her  room,  and  went  through  the  wooden  passage 
into  the  bark  hut.  The  wind  roared  about  it,  shook  it, 
and  pawed  it,  and  sung  and  whistled  in  the  chinks  of 
the  planks.  I  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  That 
moment  the  wind  seized  upon  me,  and  I  had  to  fight 
with  it.  When  I  got  on  the  path  leading  along  the  edge 
of  the  downs,  I  felt  something  lighter  than  any  feather 
dy  in  my  face.  When  I  put  up  my  hand,  I  found  my 
cheek  wet  Again  and  again  I  was  thus  assailed,  but 
when  I  got  to  the  breakwater,  I  found  what  it  wasw 
They  were  flakes  of  foam,  bubbles  worked  up  into  little 
masses  of  adhering  thousands,  which  the  wind  blew  off 
the  waters  and  across  the  downs,  carrying  some  of  them 
miles  inland.  When  I  reached  the  breakwater,  and 
looked  along  its  ridge  through  the  darkness  of  the  night 
I  was  bewildered  to  see  a  whiteness  lying  here  and  there 
in  a  great  patch  upon  its  top.  They  were  but  accumii- 
lations  of  these  foam-flakes,  like  soap-suds,  lying  so  thick 
that  I  expected  to  have  to  wade  through  them,  only  they 
vanished  at  the  touch   of  my  feet     Till  then  I  had 


S94  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

almost  believed  it  was  snow  I  saw.  *0n  the  edge  of  the 
waves,  in  quieter  spots,  they  lay  like  yeast,  foaming  and 
working.  Now  and  then  a  little  rush  of  water  from  a 
higher  wave  swept  over  the  top  of  the  broad  breakwater, 
as  with  head  bowed  sideways  against  the  wind,  I  struggled 
along  towards  the  rock  at  its  end ;  but  I  said  to  myself, 
**  The  tide  is  falling  fast,  and  salt  water  hurts  nobody," 
and  struggled  on  over  the  huge  rough  stones  of  the 
mighty  heap,  outside  which  the  waves  were  white  with 
wrath,  inside  which  they  had  fallen  asleep,  only  heaving 
with  the  memory  of  their  late  unrest  I  reached  the 
tall  rock  at  length,  climbed  the  rude  stair  leading  up  to 
the  flagstaff,  and  looked  abroad,  if  looking  it  could  be 
called,  into  the  thick  dark.  But  the  wind  blew  so  strong 
on  the  top  that  I  was  glad  to  descend.  Between  me 
and  the  basin  where  yesterday  morning  I  had  bathed  in 
still  water  and  sunshine  with  my  boys,  rolled  the  deathly 
waves.  I  wandered  on  the  rough  narrow  space  yet  un- 
covered, stumbling  over  the  stones  and  the  rocky  points 
between  which  they  lay,  stood  here  and  there  hal^ 
meditating,  and  at  length,  finding  a  sheltered  nook  in  a 
mass  of  rock,  sat  with  the  wind  howling  and  the  waves 
bursting  around  me.  There  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  brown 
study — almost  a  half-sleep. 

But  I  had  not  sat  long  before  I  came  broad  awake, 
for  I  heard  voices,  low  and  earnest.  One  I  recognized 
as  Joe's  voice.  The  other  was  a  woman's.  I  could  not 
tell  what  they  said  for  some  time,  and  therefore  felt  no 
immediate  necessity  for  disclosing  my  proximity,  but  sat 
debating  with  myself  whether  I  should  speak  to  them  oi 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  39$ 

not  At  length,  in  a  lull  of  the  wind,  I  heard  the  woman 
say-  -I  could  fancy  with  a  sigh — 

**  I  'm  sure  you  '11  du  what  is  right,  Joe.  Don't  'e  think 
o'  me,  Joe." 

"  It's  just  of  you  that  I  do  think,  Aggy.  You  know  it 
ben't  for  my  sake.     Surely  you  know  that  ?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment.  I  was  still  doubt- 
ing what  I  had  best  do — go  away  quietly  or  let  them 
know  I  was  there — when  she  spoke  again.  There  was  a 
momentary  lull  now  in  the  noises  of  both  wind  and  water, 
and  I  heard  what  she  said  well  enough. 

"  It  ben't  for  me  to  contradict  you,  Joe.  But  I  don't 
think  you  be  going  to  die.  You  be  no  worse  than  last 
year.     Be  you  now,  Joe  ? " 

It  flashed  across  me  how  once  before,  a  stormy  night 
and  dai-kness  had  brought  me  close  to  a  soul  in  agony. 
Then  I  was  in  agony  myself;  now  the  world  was  all  fair 
and  hopeful  around  me — the  portals  of  the  world  beyond 
ever  opening  wider  as  I  approached  them,  and  letting 
out  more  of  their  glory  to  gladden  the  path  to  their 
threshold.  But  here  were  two  souls  straying  in  a  mist 
which  faith  might  roll  away,  and  leave  them  walking  in 
the  light     The  moment  was  come.     I  must  speak. 

«*Joe!"  I  called  out 

"  Who 's  there  ? "  he  cried ;  and  I  heard  him  start  to 
his  feet 

**  Only  Mr  Walton.     Where  are  you  1  * 

"  We  can't  be  very  far  off,"  he  answered,  hot  in  a  tone 
of  any  pleasure  at  finding  me  so  nigh. 

I  rose,  and  peering  about  through  the  darkness,  fouBd 


$g6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

that  they  were  a  little  higher  up  on  the  same  rock  by 
which  I  was  sheltered. 

•*  You  musn't  think,"  I  said,  "  that  I  have  been  eaves- 
dropping. I  had  no  idea  any  one  was  near  me  till  I 
heard  your  voices,  and  I  did  not  hear  a  word  till  just  the 
last  sentence  or  two." 

"  I  saw  some  one  go  up  the  Castle-rock,"  said  Joe ; 
**  but  I  thought  he  was  gone  away  again.  It  will  be  a 
lesson  to  me." 

"  I  'ra  no  tell-tale,  Joe,"  I  returned,  as  I  scrambled  up 
the  rock.  "  You  will  have  no  cause  to  regret  that  I 
happened  to  overhear  a  Httle.  I  am  sure,  Joe,  you  will 
never  say  anything  you  need  be  asham.ed  of.  But  what 
I  heard  was  sufficient  to  let  me  into  the  secret  of  your 
trouble.  Will  you  let  me  talk  to  Joe,  Agnes?  I've 
been  young  myself,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  think 
I'm  old  yet." 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  she  answered,  "  you  won't  be  hard 
on  Joe  and  me.  I  don't  suppose  there  bs  anything 
wrong  in  liking  each  other,  though  we  can't  be — mar 
ried." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  her  voice  trembled  very 
much  ;  yet  there  was  a  certain  womanly  composure  in 
her  utterance.  "  I  'm  sure  it 's  very  bold  of  me  to  talk 
60,"  she  added,  **  but  Joe  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

I  was  close  beside  them  now,  and  fancied  I  saw 
through  the  dusk  the  motion  of  her  hand  stealing  into 
his. 

"  Well,  Joe,  this  is  just  what  I  wanted,"  I  said.  "  A 
woman  can  be  braver  than  a  big  smith   sometimes. 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  397 

Agnes  has  done  her  part.  Now  you  do  yours,  and  teli 
me  all  about  it** 

No  response  followed  my  adjuration.  I  must  help 
him. 

"  I  think  I  know  how  the  matter  lies,  Joe.  You  thhik 
fou  are  not  going  to  live  long,  and  that  therefore  you 
ought  not  to  marry.     Am  I  right  1 " 

"  Not  far  oflf  it,  sir,"  he  answered. 

**  Now,  Joe,"  I  said,  "can't  we  talk  as  friends  about  this 
matter  1  I  have  no  right  to  intrude  into  your  affairs — 
none  in  the  least — except  what  friendship  gives  me.  If 
you  say  I  am  not  to  talk  about  it,  I  shall  be  silent.  To 
force  advice  upon  you  would  be  as  impertinent  as  use- 
less." 

"  It 's  all  the  same,  I  'm  afraid,  sir.  My  mind  has  been 
made  up  for  a  long  time.  What  right  have  I  to  bring 
other  people  into  trouble  1  But  I  take  it  kind  of  you, 
sir,  though  I  mayn't  look  over-pleased.  Agnes  wants  to 
hear  your  way  of  it     I  'm  agreeable." 

This  was  not  very  encouraging.  Still  I  thought  it 
sufficient  ground  for  proceejing. 

"  I  suppose  that  you  will  allow  that  the  root  of  all 
Christian  behaviour  is  the  will  of  God  1 " 

"Surely,  sir." 

"  Is  it  not  the  will  of  God,  then,  that  when  a  man  and 
woman  love  each  other,  they  should  marry]" 

"Certainly,  sir — where  there  be  no  reasons  against 
It** 

"  Of  course.  And  you  judge  you  see  reason  for  not 
doing  so,  else  you  would  I** 


39^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  I  do  see  that  a  man  should  not  bring  a  woman  into 
trouble  for  the  sake  of  being  comfortable  himself  for  the 
rest  of  a  few  weary  days." 

Agnes  was  sobbing  gently  behind  her  handkerchief 
I  knew  how  gladly  she  would  be  Joe's  wife,  if  only  to 
nurse  him  through  his  last  illness. 

"  Not  except  it  would  make  her  comfortable  too,  I 
grant  you,  Joe.  But  listen  to  me.  In  the  first  place, 
you  don't  know,  and  you  are  not  required  to  know,  when 
you  are  going  to  die.  In  fact,  you  have  nothing  to  do 
•with  it.  Many  a  life  has  been  injured  by  the  constant 
expectation  of  death.  It  is  life  we  have  to  do  with,  not 
death.  The  best  preparation  for  the  night  is  to  work 
while  the  day  lasts,  diligently.  The  best  preparation  for 
death  is  life.  Besides,  I  have  known  delicate  people 
who  have  outlived  all  their  strong  relations,  and  been 
left  alone  in  the  earth — because  they  had  possibly  taken 
too  much  care  of  themselves.  But  marriage  is  God's 
will,  and  death  is  God's  will,  and  you  have  no  business 
to  set  the  one  over  against,  as  antagonistic  to,  the  other. 
For  anything  you  know,  the  gladness  and  the  peace  ot 
marriage  may  be  the  very  means  intended  for  your  re- 
storation to  health  and  strength,  I  suspect  your  desire 
to  marry,  fighting  against  the  idea  that  you  ought  not 
to  marry,  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  state  of  health 
in  which  you  now  find  yourself.  A  man  would  get  over 
many  things  if  he  were  happy,  that  he  cannot  get  over 
when  he  is  miserable." 

♦*  But  it's  for  Aggy.     You  forget  that." 

••  i  do  not  forget  it.     What  right  have  you  to  seek  fo» 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  399 

her  another  kind  of  welfare  than  you  would  have  your- 
self? Are  you  to  treat  her  as  if  she  were  worldly  when 
jrou  are  not — to  provide  for  her  a  comlort  which  your- 
self you  would  despise  I  Why  should  you  not  marry 
because  you  have  to  die  soon? — if  you  are  thus  doomed, 
which  to  me  is  by  no  means  clear.  Why  not  have  what 
happiness  you  may  for  the  rest  of  your  sojourn  %  If  you 
find  at  the  end  of  twenty  years  that  here  you  are  after 
all,  you  will  be  rather  sorry  you  did  not  do  as  I  say." 

"And  if  I  find  myself  dying  iX  the  end  of  six 
months?" 

**  You  will  thank  God  for  those  six  months.  The  whole 
thing,  my  dear  fellow,  is  a  want  of  faith  in  God.  I  do 
not  doubt  you  think  you  are  doing  right,  but,  I  repeat, 
the  whole  thing  comes  from  want  of  faith  in  God.  You 
will  take  things  into  your  own  hands,  and  order  thera 
after  a  preventive  and  self-protective  fashion,  lest  God 
should  have  ordained  the  worst  for  you,  which  worst, 
after  all,  would  be  best  met  by  doing  his  will  without  in- 
quiry into  the  future;  and  which  worst  is  no  eviL  Death 
is  no  more  an  evil  than  marriage  is." 

"  But  you  don't  see  it  as  I  do,"  persisted  the  black- 
smith. 

"  Of  course  I  don't.     I  think  you  see  it  as  it  is  not.*' 

He  remained  silent  for  a  little.  A  shower  of  spray  fell 
upon  us.     He  started. 

"  What  a  wave  I "  he  cried.  "  That  spray  came  ovei 
the  top  of  the  rock.     We  shall  have  to  run  for  it." 

I  fancied  that  he  only  wanted  to  avoid  further  convero 
sation. 


4X>  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

'* There's  no  hurry,*'  I  said.  "  It  was  high  water  an 
hour  and  a  half  ago.'* 

**  You  don't  know  this  coast,  sir,**  returned  he,  "  or  you 
wouldn't  talk  like  that." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose,  and  going  from  under  the  shelter 
of  the  rock,  looked  along. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Aggy  ! "  he  cried,  in  terror,  "  come 
at  once.  Every  other  wave  be  rushing  across  the  break- 
water as  if  it  was  on  the  level.** 

So  saying,  he  hurried  back,  caught  her  by  the  hand, 
and  began  to  draw  her  along. 

'*  Hadn't  we  better  stay  where  we  are?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"If  you  can  stand  the  night  in  the  cold.  But  Aggy 
here  is  delicate ;  and  I  don't  care  about  being  out  all 
night.  It 's  not  the  tide,  sir ;  it 's  a  ground  swell — from 
a  storm  somewhere  out  at  sea.  That  never  asks  no  ques- 
tions about  tide  or  no  tide." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  I  said.  "  But  just  wait  one 
minute  more.     It  is  better  to  be  ready  for  the  worst." 

For  I  remembered  that  the  day  before  I  had  seen  a 
crow-bar  lying  among  the  stones,  and  I  thought  it  might 
be  useful.  In  a  moment  or  two  I  had  found  it,  and  retain- 
ing, gave  it  to  Joe.  Then  I  took  the  girl's  disengaged 
hand  She  thanked  me  in  a  voice  perfectly  calm  and 
film.  Joe  took  the  bar  in  haste,  and  drew  Agnes  to- 
wards the  breakwater. 

Any  real  thougln  of  danger  had  not  yet  crossed  my 
nind.  But  when  I  looked  along  the  outstretched  back 
of  the  mole,  and  saw  a  dim  sheet  of  white  sweep  aciosi 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  4OI 

it,  I  felt  that  there  was  ground  for  his  anxiety,  and  pre* 
pared  myself  for  a  struggle 

**  Do  you  know  what  to  do  with  the  crowbar,  Joe  I  *• 
I  said,  grasping  my  own  stout  oak  stick  more  firmly. 

"  Perfectly,"  answered  Joe.  **  To  stick  between  the 
stones  and  hold  on.  We  must  watch  our  time  between 
the  waves." 

"You  take  the  command,  then,  Joe,**  I  returned. 
"  You  see  better  than  I  do,  and  you  know  the  ways  of 
that  raging  wild  beast  there  better  than  I  do.  I  will  obey 
orders — one  of  which,  no  doubt,  will  be,  not  for  wind  or 
sea  to  lose  hold  of  Agnes— eh,  Joe  t " 

Joe  gave  a  grim  enough  laugh  in  reply,  and  we  started, 
he  carrying  his  crowbar  in  his  right  hand  towards  the  ad- 
vancing sea,  and  I  my  oak  stick  in  my  left  towards  the 
still  water  within. 

"  Quick  march  1**  said  Joe,  and  away  we  went  out  on 
the  breakwater. 

Now  the  back  of  the  breakwater  was  very  rugged,  for 
it  was  formed  of  huge  stones,  with  wide  gaps  between, 
where  the  waters  had  washed  out  the  cement,  and  worn 
their  edges.  But  what  impeded  our  progress  secured  our 
•afety. 

"  Halt !  **  cried  Joe,  when  we  were  yet  but  a  few  yards 
beyond  the  shelter  of  the  rocks.  "There's  a  toppec 
coming.'* 

We  halted  at  the  word  of  command,  as  a  huge  wave, 
with  combing  crest,  rushed  against  the  far  outsloping 
base  of  the  mole,  and  flung  its  heavy  top  right  over  the 
middle  of  the  mass,  a  score  or  two  of  yards  in  front  of  ust 

a  C 


f03  THB    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  Now  for  it,"  cried  Joe.     "  Run  I " 

We  did  run.  In  my  mind  there  was  just  sense  enough 
of  danger  to  add  to  the  pleasure  of  the  excitement.  1 
did  not  know  how  much  danger  there  was.  Over  tl  e 
rough  worn  stones  we  sped,  stumbling. 

"  Halt !"  cried  the  smith  once  more,  and  we  did  halt ; 
but  this  time,  as  it  turned  out,  in  the  middle  front  of  the 
coming  danger. 

**  God  be  with  us !  **  I  exclaimed,  when  the  huge  billow 
showed  itself  through  the  night,  rushing  towards  the  mole. 
The  smith  stuck  his  crowbar  between  two  great  stones. 
To  this  he  held  on  with  one  hand,  and  threw  the  other 
arm  round  Agnes*s  waist  I,  too,  had  got  my  oak  firmly 
fixed,  held  on  with  one  hand,  and  threw  the  other  arm 
round  Agnes.     It  took  but  a  moment 

"  Now  then  !**  cried  Joe.  "  Here  she  comes  1  Hold 
on,  sir.     Hold  on,  Aggy !" 

But  when  I  saw  the  height  of  the  water,  as  it  rushed 
on  us  up  the  sloping  side  of  the  mound,  I  cried  out,  in 
my  turn — 

"  Down,  Joe !  Down  on  your  face,  and  let  it  over  us 
easy!     Down,  ^gnes!" 

They  obeyed.  We  threw  ourselves  across  the  break- 
water, with  our  heads  to  the  coming  foe,  and  I  grasped 
my  stick  close  to  the  stones  with  all  the  power  of  a 
hand  that  was  then  strong.  Over  us  burst  the  mighty 
rave,  floating  us  up  from  the  stones  where  we  lay.  But 
we  held  on,  the  wave  passed,  and  we  sprung  gasping  to 
our  feet 

*  Now,  now  r  cried  Joe  and  I  together,  and,  heavj 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  403 

as  we  were,  with  the  water  pouring  from  us.  we  Hevi 
across  the  remainder  of  the  heap,  and  arrived,  panting 
and  safe,  at  the  other  end,  ere  one  wave  more  had  swept 
the  surface.  The  moment  we  were  in  safety  we  turned 
and  looked  back  over  the  danger  we  had  traversed.  It 
was  to  see  a  huge  billow  sweep  the  breakwater  from  end 
to  end.  We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  without 
speaking. 

"  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Joe  at  length,  with  slow  and 
solemn  speech,  "  if  you  hadn't  taken  the  command  at 
that  moment  we  should  all  have  been  lost." 

"  It  seems  likely  enough,  when  I  look  back  on  it. 
For  one  thing,  I  was  not  sure  that  my  stick  would  stand, 
80  I  thought  I  had  better  grasp  it  low  down." 

"  We  were  awfully  near  death,"  said  Joe. 

**  Nearer  than  you  thought,  Joe ;  and  yet  we  escaped 
it.  Things  don't  go  all  as  we  fancy,  you  see.  Faith  is 
as  essential  to  manhood  as  foresight — believe  me,  Joe. 
It  is  very  absurd  to  trust  God  for  the  future,  and  not 
trust  him  for  the  present.  The  man  who  is  not  anxious 
is  the  man  most  likely  to  do  the  right  thing.  He  is  cool 
and  collected  and  ready.  Our  Lord  therefore  told  his 
disciples  that  when  they  should  be  brought  before  kings 
and  rulers,  they  were  to  take  no  thought  what  answei 
they  should  make,  for  it  would  be  given  them  when  the 
time  came." 

We  were  climbing  the  steep  path  up  to  the  downs. 
Neither  of  my  companions  spoke. 

"  You  have  escaped  one  death  together,"  I  said,  at 
length :  "  dare  another." 


404  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Still  neither  of  them  returned  an  answer.  When  we 
came  near  the  parsonage,  I  said — 

"  Now,  Joe,  you  must  go  in  and  get  to  bed  at  once. 
1  will  take  Agnes  home.  You  can  trust  me  not  to  say 
anything  against  you  ?** 

Joe  laughed  rather  hoarsely,  and  replied — 

"As  you  please,  sir.  Good  night,  Aggy.  Mind  yob 
get  to  bed  as  fast  as  you  can." 

When  I  returned  from  giving  Agnes  over  to  hei 
parents,  I  made  haste  to  change  my  clothes,  and  put  on 
my  warm  dressing-gown.  I  may  as  well  mention  at 
once,  that  not  one  of  us  was  the  worse  for  our  ducking. 
I  then  went  up  to  Connie's  room. 

"  Here  I  am  you  see,  Connie,  quite  safe.*' 

"  I  Ve  been  lying  listening  to  every  blast  of  wind  since 
you  went  out,  papa.  But  all  I  could  do  was  to  trust  in 
God." 

"  Do  you  call  that  all,  Connie  %  Believe  me,  there  is 
more  power  in  that  than  any  human  being  knows  the 
tenth  part  of  yet.     It  is  indeed  alV* 

I  said  no  more  then.  I  told  my  wife  about  it  that 
night,  but  we  were  well  into  another  month  before  I  told 
Connie. 

When  I  left  her,  I  went  to  Joe's  room  to  see  how  he 
was,  and  found  him  having  some  gruel.  I  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed,  and  said — 

"  Well,  Joe,  this  is  better  than  under  water.  I  hope 
you  won't  be  the  worse  for  it" 

"  I  don't  much  care  what  comes  of  me,  sir.  It  will  be 
all  over  soon." 


A    SMALL    ADVENTURE.  40$ 

"  But  you  ought  to  care  what  comes  of  you,  Joe.  I 
will  tell  you  why.  You  are  an  instrument  out  of  which 
oiiq:ht  to  come  praise  to  God,  and,  therefore,  you  ought 
to  c«ire  for  the  instrument." 

"  That  way,  yes,  sir,  I  ought." 

**  And  you  have  no  business  to  be  like  some  children, 
who  say,  *  Mamma  won't  give  me  so  and  so,*  instead  of 
asking  her  to  give  it  them.'* 

*'  I  see  what  you  mean,  sir.  But  really  you  put  me 
out  before  the  young  woman.  I  couldn't  say  before  her 
what  I  meant.  Suppose,  you  know,  sir,  there  was  to 
come  a  family.     It  might  be,  you  know.'* 

"  Of  course.     What  else  would  you  have  ?  ** 

"But  if  I  was  to  die,  where  would  she  be  thent* 

"  In  God's  hands ;  just  as  she  is  now." 

"  But  I  ought  to  take  care  that  she  is  not  left  with  a 
burden  like  that  to  provide  for.'* 

"  Oh,  Joe  !  how  little  you  know  a  woman*s  heart  I  It 
would  just  be  the  greatest  comfort  she  could  have  for 
losing  you — that's  all  Many  a  woman  has  married  a 
man  she  did  not  care  enough  for,  just  that  she  might 
have  a  child  of  her  own  to  let  out  her  heart  upon.  I 
don't  say  that  is  right,  you  know.  Such  love  cannot  be 
perfect.  A  woman  ought  to  love  her  child  because  it  is 
her  husband's  more  than  because  it  is  her  own,  and 
because  it  is  God's  more  than  cither's.  I  saw  in  the 
papers  the  other  day,  that  a  woman  was  brought  before 
the  Recorder  of  London  for  stealing  a  baby,  when  the 
judge  himself  said  that  there  was  no  imaginable  motive 
lor  her  action  but  a  motnerly  passion  to  possess  the 


i06  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

f^hild.  It  is  the  need  of  a  child  that  makes  so  many 
women  take  to  poor  miserable,  broken-nosed  lap-dogs  ; 
for  they  are  self-indulgent,  and  cannot  face  the  troubles 
and  dangers  of  adopting  a  child.  They  would  if  the) 
might  get  one  of  a  good  family,  or  from  a  respectable 
home ;  but  they  dare  not  take  an  orphan  out  of  the  dvft, 
lest  it  should  spoil  their  silken  chairs.  But  that  has 
lothing  to  do  with  our  argument.  What  I  mean  is  this, 
thai  if  Agnes  really  loves  you,  as  no  one  can  look  in  her 
face  and  doubt,  she  will  be  far  happier  if  you  leave  her 
a  child — yes,  she  will  be  happier  if  you  only  leave  hei 
your  name  for  hers — than  if  you  died  without  calling  her 
your  wife." 

I  took  Joe's  basin  from  him,  and  he  lay  down.  He 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  I  waited  a  moment,  but 
finding  him  silent,  bade  him  good  night,  and  left  the 
room. 

A  month  after.  I  married  them. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


THE    HARVEST. 


T  was  some  time  before  we  got  the  bells  to 
work  to  our  mind,  but  at  last  we  succeeded. 
The  worst  of  it  was  to  get  the  cranks,  which 
at  first  required  strong  pressure  on  the  keys, 
to  work  easily  enough.  But  neither  Joe  nor  his  cousin 
spared  any  pains  to  perfect  the  attempt,  and,  as  I  say, 
at  length  we  succeeded.  I  took  Wynnie  down  to  the 
instrument  and  made  her  try  whether  she  could  not  do 
something,  and  she  succeeded  in  making  the  old  tower 
discourse  loudly  and  eloquently. 

By  this  time  the  thanksgiving  for  the  harvest  was  at 
hand :  on  the  morning  of  that  first  of  all  would  I  sum- 
mon the  folk  to  their  prayers  with  the  sound  of  the  full 
peal.  And  I  wrote  a  little  hymn  of  praise  to  the  God 
of  the  harvest,  modelling  it  to  one  of  the  oldest  tunes  in 
that  part  of  the  country,  and  I  had  it  printed  on  slips  of 
paper  and  laid  plentifully  on  the  benches.    What  with 


408  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  calling  of  the  bells,  like  voices  in  the  highway,  and 
the  solemn  meditation  of  the  organ  within  to  bear  aloft 
the  thoughts  of  those  who  heard,  and  came  to  the  prayer 
and  thanksgiving  in  common,  and  the  message  which 
God  had  given  me  to  utter  to  them,  I  hoped  that  we 
should  indeed  keep  holiday. 

Wynnie  summoned  the  parish  with  the  hundredth  psalm 
pealed  from  aloft,  dropping  from  the  airy  regions  of  the 
tower  on  village  and  hamlet  and  cottage,  calling  aloud 
—for  who  could  dissociate  the  words  from  the  music, 
though  the  words  are  in  the  Scotch  psalms'? — written  non<tt 
the  less  by  an  Englishman,  however  English  wits  mar 
amuse  themselves  with  laughing  at  their  quaintness— 
calling  aloud, — 

•*  All  people  that  on  earth  do  dwell 

Sing  to  the  Lord  with  cheerful  voice  ; 
Him  serve  with  mirth,  his  praise  forth  tell— 
Come  ye  before  him  and  rejoice." 

Then  we  sang  the  psalm  before  the  communion  sei- 
vice,  making  bold  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  to  serve  him 
with  mirth  as  in  the  old  version,  and  not  with  the  flat 
with  which  some  editor,  weak  in  faith,  has  presumed  to 
alter  the  line.  Then  before  the  sermon  we  sang  the 
hymn  1  had  prepared — a  proceeding  justifiable  by  many 
an  example  in  the  history  of  the  church  while  she  was 
not  only  able  to  number  singers  amongst  her  clergy,  but 
those  singers  were  capable  of  influencing  the  whole 
heart  and  judgment  of  the  nation  with  their  songs, 
Ethelwyn  played  the  organ. 

The  song  I  had  prepared  was  this :— 


THE    HARVEST.  4O9 


We  praise  the  Life  of  All ; 

From  buried  seeds  so  small 
Who  makes  the  ordered  ranks  of  autumn  stand* 

Who  stores  the  com 

In  rick  and  barn 
To  feed  the  winter  of  the  land. 

We  praise  the  Life  of  Light  I 

Who  from  the  brooding  night 
Draws  out  the  morning  holy,  calm,  and  grand  f 

Veils  up  the  moon. 

Sends  out  the  sun, 
To  glad  the  face  of  all  the  land. 

We  praise  the  Life  of  Woric, 

Who  from  sleep's  lonely  dark 
Leads  forth  his  children  to  arise  and  stanii^ 

Then  go  their  way. 

The  live-long  day, 
To  trust  and  labour  in  the  land. 

We  praise  the  Life  of  Good, 

Who  breaks  sin's  lazy  mood. 
Toilsomely  ploughing  up  the  fruitless  sand. 

The  furrowed  waste 

They  leave,  and  haste 
Home,  home  to  till  their  Father's  land. 

We  praise  the  Life  of  Life, 

Who  in  this  soil  of  strife 
Casts  us  at  birth,  like  seed  from  sower' 1  hand| 

To  die,  and  so 

Like  com  to  grow 
A  golden  harvest  in  his  land. 

After  we  bad  sung  this  hyran,  the  meaning  of  which  is 
far  better  than  the  versification,  I  preached  from  the 
words  of  St  Paul,  "  If  by  any  means  I  might  attain  unto 
the  resurrection  of  the  dead.     Not  as  though  I  had  al* 


4IO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

ready  attained,  either  were  already  perfect**    And  this 
is  something  like  what  I  said  to  them  : — 

"  The  world,  my  friends,  is  full  of  resurrections,  and 
•it  is  not  always  of  the  same  resurrection  that  St  Pau\ 
speaks.  Every  night  that  folds  us  up  in  darkness  is  a 
death  ;  and  those  of  you  that  have  been  out  early  and 
have  seen  the  first  of  the  dawn,  will  know  it — the  day 
rises  out  of  the  night  like  a  being  that  has  burst  its  tomb 
and  escaped  into  Hte.  That  you  may  feel  that  the  sun- 
rise is  a  resurrection — the  word  resurrection  just  means 
a  rising  again — I  will  read  you  a  little  description  of  it 
from  a  sermon  by  a  great  writer  and  great  preacher 
called  Jeremy  Taylor.  Listen.  *  But  as  when  the  sun 
approaching  towards  the  gates  of  the  morning,  he  first 
opens  a  little  eye  o^  heaven  and  sends  away  the  spirits 
of  darkness,  and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the 
laik  to  matins,  and  by  and  by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud, 
and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  his  golden 
horns  like  those  which  decked  the  brows  of  Moses,  when 
he  was  forced  to  wear  a  veil,  because  himself  had  seen 
the  face  of  God ;  and  still,  while  a  man  tells  the  story, 
the  sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shows  a  fair  face  and  a 
full  light,  and  then  he  shines  one  whole  day,  under  a 
cloud  often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little 
showers,  and  sets  quickly ;  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his 
life.'  Is  not  this  a  resurrection  of  the  day  out  of  the 
night?  Or  hear  how  Milton  makes  his  Adam  and  Eve 
praise  God  in  the  morning, — 

*  Ye  mists  and  exhalations  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  streaming  lake,  dusky  or  gntj. 


THE    HARVEST.  41I 


Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold. 
In  honour  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise, 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncoloured  sky. 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 
Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise.' 

But  It  is  yet  more  of  a  resurrection  to  you.  Think  oi 
your  ovm  condition  through  the  night  and  in  the  morn- 
ing. You  die,  as  it  were,  every  night.  The  death  ot 
darkness  comes  down  over  the  earth ;  but  a  deeper 
death,  the  death  of  sleep,  descends  on  you.  A  power 
overshadows  you ;  your  eyelids  close,  you  cannot  keep 
them  open  if  you  would;  your  limbs  lie  moveless;  the 
day  is  gone ;  your  whole  life  is  gone ;  you  have  forgotten 
everything ;  an  evil  man  might  come  and  do  with  yoiyi 
goods  as  he  pleased ;  you  are  helpless.  But  the  God  ol 
the  Resurrection  is  awake  all  the  time,  watching  his 
sleeping  men  and  women,  even  as  a  mother  who  watches 
her  sleeping  baby,  only  with  larger  eyes  and  more  full 
of  love  than  hers ;  and  so,  you  know  not  how,  all  at 
once  you  know  that  you  are  what  you  are ;  that  there  is 
a  world  that  wants  you  outside  of  you,  and  a  God  that 
wants  you  inside  of  you ;  you  rise  from  the  death  of 
sleep,  not  by  your  own  power,  for  you  knew  nothing 
about  it;  God  put  his  hana  jver  your  eyes,  and  you 
were  dead;  he  lifted  his  hand  and  breathed  light  on 
you,  and  you  rose  from  the  dead,  thanked  the  God  who 
raised  you  up,  and  went  forth  to  do  your  work.  From 
darkness  to  light ;  from  blindness  to  seeing  ;  from  know- 
ing nothing  to  looking  abroad  on  the  mighty  world  ; 
Tom  helpless  submission  to  willing  obedience, — is  not 


413  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

this  a  resurrection  indeed  ?  That  St  Paul  saw  it  to  be 
Buch  may  be  shown  from  his  using  the  two  tilings  with 
the  same  meaning  when  he  says,  *  Awake  thou  that 
sleepest  and  arise  from  the  dead,  and  Christ  shall  give 
thee  light.*  No  doubt  he  meant  a  great  deal  more.  No 
man  who  understands  what  he  is  speaking  about  Can 
well  mean  only  one  thing  at  a  time. 

"  But  to  return  to  the  resurrections  we  see  around  us 
in  nature.  Look  at  the  death  that  falls  upon  the  world 
in  winter.  And  look  how  it  revives  when  the  sun  draws 
n-ar  enough  in  the  spring  to  wile  the  life  in  it  once  more 
out  of  its  grave.  See  how  the  pale,  meek  snowdrops 
come  up  with  their  bowed  heads,  as  if  full  of  the  memory 
of  the  fierce  winds  they  encountered  last  spring,  and  yet 
ready  in  the  strength  of  their  weakness  to  encounter  them 
again.  Up  comes  the  crocus,  bringing  its  gold  safe  from 
the  dark  of  its  colourless  grave  into  the  light  of  its  parent 
gold.  Primroses,  and  anemones,  and  blue-bells,  and  a 
thousand  other  children  of  the  spring,  hear  the  resurrec- 
tion-trumpet of  the  wind  from  the  west  and  south,  obey, 
and  leave  their  graves  behind  to  breathe  the  air  of  the 
sweet  heavens.  Up  and  up  they  come  till  the  year  is  glori- 
ous with  the  rose  and  the  lily,  till  the  trees  are  not  only 
clothed  upon  with  new  garments  of  loveliest  green,  but 
the  fruit-tree  bringeth  forth  its  fruit,  and  the  httle  chil- 
dren of  men  are  made  glad  with  apples,  and  cherries,  and 
hazel-nuts.  The  earth  laughs  out  m  green  and  gold 
The  sky  shares  in  the  grand  resurrection.  The  ga'-ments 
ot  its  mourning,  wherewith  it  maae  men  sad,  its  clouds 
Oi  mow  and  hail  and  stormy  vapours  are  swept  away, 


THE    HARVEST.  413 


have  sunk  indeed  to  the  earth,  and  are  now  humbly 
feeding  the  roots  of  the  flowers  whose  dead  stalks  they 
beat  upon  all  the  winter  long.  Instead,  the  sky  has  put 
on  the  garments  of  praise.  H«er  blue,  coloured  after  the 
Bapphire-floor  on  which  stands  the  throne  of  him  who  is 
the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  is  dashed  and  glorified 
with  the  pure  white  of  sailing  clouds,  and  at  morning 
and  evening  prayer,  puts  on  colours  in  which  the  human 
heart  drowns  itself  with  delight — green  and  gold  and 
purple  and  rose.  Even  the  icebergs  floating  about  in 
the  lonely  summer  seas  of  the  north  are  flashing  'xU  the 
glories  of  the  rainbow.  But,  indeed,  is  not  this  «rhole 
world  itself  a  monument  of  the  Resurrection')'  The 
earch  was  without  form  and  void.  The  wind  jl  God 
moved  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  up  arose  this  fair 
world.  Darkness  was  on  the  face  of  the  dee^; :  God 
said,  *  Let  there  be  light,'  and  there  was  light 

**In  the  animal  world  as  well,  you  behold  thv  f.oings 
of  the  Resurrection.  Plainest  of  all,  look  at  the  story  of 
the  butterfly — so  plain  that  the  pagan  Greeks  citled  it 
and  the  soul  by  one  name — Psyche.  Psyche  mc.'.nt  with 
them  a  butterfly  or  the  soul,  either.  Look  noi/  the 
creeping  thing,  ugly  to  our  eyes,  so  that  we  caa  hardly 
handle  it  without  a  shudder,  finding  itself  gro\^ixig  sick 
with  age,  straightway  falls  a  spinning  and  weaving  at  its 
own  shroud,  coflSn,  and  grave,  all  in  one — to  prepare,  ir. 
fact,  for  its  resurrection ;  for  it  is  for  the  sake  of  tiie  re- 
surrection that  death  exists.  Patiently  it  spins  its 
strength,  but  not  its  life,  away,  folds  itself  up  decently, 
tliat  its  body  may  rest  in  quiet  till  the  new  bo.Iy  i« 


414  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


formed  within  it;  and  at  length  when  the  appointed  hour 
has  arrived,  out  of  the  body  of  this  crawhng  thing  breaks 
forth  the  winged  splendour  of  the  butterfly — not  the 
same  body — a  new  built  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old— • 
even  as  St  Paul  tells  us  that  it  is  not  the  same  body  we 
have  in  the  resurrection,  but  a  nobler  body  like  ourselves, 
with  all  the  imperfect  and  evil  thing  taken  away.  No 
more  creeping  for  the  butterfly;  wings  of  splendour  now. 
Neither  yet  has  it  lost  the  feet  wherewith  to  alight  on  all 
that  is  lovely  and  sweet.  Think  of  it — up  from  the 
toilsome  journey  over  the  low  ground,  exposed  to  the 
foot  of  every  passer-by,  destroying  the  lovely  leaves  upon 
which  it  fed,  and  the  fruit  which  they  should  shelter, 
up  to  the  path  at  will  through  the  air,  and  a  gathering 
of  food  which  hurts  not  the  source  of  it,  a  food  which  is 
but  as  a  tribute  from  the  loveliness  of  the  flowers  to  the 
yet  higher  loveliness  of  the  flower-angel :  is  not  this  a 
resurrection?  Its  children  too  shall  pass  through  the 
same  process,  to  wing  the  air  of  a  summer  noon,  and 
rejoice  in  the  ethereal  and  the  pure. 

"  To  return  yet  again  from  the  human  thoughts  sug- 
gested by  the  symbol  of  the  butterfly" — 

Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment — and  there  was  8 
corresponding  pause,  though  but  momentary,  in  the 
sermon  as  I  spoke  it — to  mention  a  curious,  and  to  me 
at  the  moment  an  interesting  fact  At  this  point  of  my 
address,  I  caught  sight  of  a  white  butterfly,  a  belated  one, 
flitting  about  the  church.  Absorbed  for  a  moment,  my 
eye  wandered  after  it  It  was  near  the  bench  where  my 
•wn  people  sat,  and,  for  one  flash  of  thought,  I  longed 


THE    HARVEST.  415 


that  the  butterfly  would  alight  on  my  Wynnie,  for  I  was 
more  anxious  about  her  resurrection  at  the  time  than 
about  anything  else.  But  the  butterfly  would  not.  And 
then  I  told  myself  that  God  would,  and  that  the  butterfly 
was  only  the  symbol  of  a  grand  truth,  and  of  no  private 
interpretation,  to  make  which  of  it  was  both  selfishness 
and  superstition.  But  all  this  passed  in  a  flash,  and  I  re- 
sumed my  discourse. 

— "  I  come  now  naturally  to  speak  of  what  we  com- 
monly call  the  Resurrection.  Some  say  :  *  How  can  the 
same  dust  be  raised  again,  when  it  may  be  scattered  to 
the  winds  o£  heaven  V  It  is  a  question  I  hardly  care  to 
answer.  The  mere  difficulty  can  in  reason  stand  for 
nothing  with  God;  but  the  apparent  worthlessness  of  the 
supposition  renders  the  question  uninteresting  to  me. 
What  is  of  import  is,  that  I  should  stand  clothed  upon, 
with  a  body  which  is  my  body  because  it  serves  my  ends, 
justifies  my  consciousness  of  identity  by  being,  in  all  that 
was  good  in  it,  like  that  which  I  had  before,  while  now 
it  is  tenfold  capable  of  expressing  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings that  move  within  me.  How  can  I  care  whether  the 
atoms  that  form  a  certain  inch  of  bone  should  be  the 
same  as  those  which  formed  that  bone  when  I  died  ?  All 
my  life-time  I  never  felt  or  thought  of  the  existence  of 
8uch  a  bone !  On  the  other  hand,  I  object  to  having 
the  same  worn  muscles,  the  same  shrivelled  skin  with 
which  I  may  happen  to  die.  Why  give  me  the  same 
body  as  that  1  Why  not  rather  my  youthful  body,  whicb 
was  strong,  and  facile,  and  capable  ?  The  matter  in  the 
muscle  of  my  arm  at  death  would  not  serve  to  make  hall 


4l6  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 

the  muscle  I  had  when  young.  But  I  thank  God  that  St 
Paul  says  it  will  7wt  be  the  same  body.  That  body  dies 
— up  springs  another  body.  I  suspect  myself  that  those 
are  right  who  say  that  this  body  being  the  seed,  the 
moment  it  dies  in  the  soil  of  this  world,  that  moment  is 
the  resurrection  of  the  new  body.  The  life  in  it  rises 
out  of  it  in  a  new  bod}^  This  is  not  after  it  is  put  in 
the  mere  earth ;  for  it  is  dead  then,  and  the  germ  of  life 
gone  out  of  it.  If  a  seed  rots,  no  new  body  comes  of  it 
The  seed  dies  into  a  new  life,  and  so  does  man.  Dying 
and  rotting  are  two  very  different  things. — But  I  am  not 
sure  by  any  means.  As  I  say,  the  whole  question  is 
rather  uninteresting  to  me.  What  do  I  care  about  my 
old  clothes  after  I  have  done  with  them  ?  What  is  it  to 
me  to  know  what  becomes  of  an  old  coat  or  an  old 
pulpit  gown  ?  I  have  no  such  cHnging  to  the  flesh.  It 
seems  to  me  that  people  believe  their  bodies  to  be 
themselves,  and  are  therefore  very  anxious  about 
them — and  no  wonder  then.  Enough  for  me  that  I 
shall  have  eyes  to  see  my  friends,  a  face  that  they 
shall  know  me  by,  and  a  mouth  to  praise  God  withaL 
I  leave  the  matter  with  one  remark,  that  I  am 
well  content  to  rise  as  Jesus  rose,  however  that 
was.  For  me  the  will  of  God  is  so  good  that  I 
would  rather  have  his  will  done  than  my  own  choice 
given  me. 

**  But  I  now  come  to  the  last,  because  infinitely  the 
most  important  part  of  my  subject — the  resurrection  for 
the  sake  of  which  all  the  other  resurrections  exist — the 
resurrection  unto  Life.    This  is  the  one  of  which  St  Paul 


THE    HARVEST.  417 


speaks  in  my  text.  This  is  the  one  I  am  most  anxious 
— indeed,  the  only  one  I  am  anxious  to  set  forth  and 
impress  upon  you. 

"Think,  then,  of  all  the  deaths  you  know;  the  death 
of  the  night,  when  the  sun  is  gone,  when  friend  says  not 
a  word  to  friend,  but  both  lie  drowned  and  parted  in  the 
sea  of  sleep ;  the  death  of  the  year,  when  winter  lies 
heavy  on  the  graves  of  the  children  of  summer,  when  the 
leafless  trees  moan  in  the  blasts  from  the  ocean,  when 
the  beasts  even  look  dull  and  oppressed,  when  the  chil- 
dren go  about  shivering  with  cold,  when  the  poor  and 
improvident  are  miserable  with  suffering ;  or  think  of 
such  a  death  of  disease  as  befalls  us  at  times,  when  the 
man  who  says,  *  Would  God  it  were  morning  I  *  changes 
but  his  word,  and  not  his  tune,  when  the  morning  comes, 
crying,  *  Would  God  it  were  evening  ! '  when  what  life  is 
left  is  known  to  us  only  by  suffering,  and  hope  is 
amongst  the  things  which  were  once  and  are  no  more — 
think  of  all  these,  think  of  them  all  together,  and  you 
will  have  but  the  dimmest,  faintest  picture  of  the  death 
from  which  the  resurrection  of  which  I  have  now  to  speak. 
is  the  rising.  I  shrink  from  the  attempt,  knowing  how 
weak  words  are  to  set  forth  the  death,  set  forth  the  resur- 
rection. Were  I  to  sit  down  to  yonder  organ,  and  crash 
out  the  most  horrible  dissonances  that  ever  took  shape 
in  sound,  I  should  give  you  but  a  weak  figure  of  this 
death  ;  were  I  capable  of  drawing  from  many  a  row  of 
pipes  an  exhalation  of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices 
sweet,  such  as  Milton  himself  could  have  invaded  our 
ears  withal»  I  could  give  you  but  a  faint  figure  of  thif 

2  D 


4l8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

resurrection.     Nevertheless,  I  must  try  what  I  can  do  in 
my  own  way. 

"  If  into  the  face  of  the  dead  body,  lying  on  the  bed. 
waiting  for  its  burial,  the  soul  of  the  man  should  begin  to 
dawn  again,  drawing  near  from  afar  to  look  out  once 
more  at  those  eyes,  to  smile  once  again  through  those 
lips,  the  change  on  that  face  would  be  indeed  great  and 
wondrous,  but  nothing  for  marvel  or  greatness  to  that 
which  passes  on  the  countenance,  the  very  outward 
bodily  face  of  the  man  who  wakes  from  his  sleep,  arises 
from  the  dead  and  receives  light  from  Christ.  Too  often 
indeed,  the  reposeful  look  on  the  face  of  the  dead  body 
would  be  troubled,  would  vanish  away  at  the  revisiting 
of  the  restless  ghost ;  but  when  a  man's  own  right  true 
mind,  which  God  made  in  him,  is  restored  to  him  again, 
and  he  wakes  from  the  death  of  sin,  then  comes  the  re- 
pose without  the  death.  It  may  take  long  for  the  new 
spirit  to  complete  the  visible  change,  but  it  begins  at 
once,  and  will  be  perfected.  The  bloated  look  of  self- 
indulgence  passes  away  like  the  leprosy  of  Naaman,  the 
cheek  grows  pure,  the  lips  return  to  the  smile  of  hope 
instead  of  the  grin  of  greed,  and  the  eyes  that  made  in- 
nocence shrink  and  shudder  with  their  yellow  leer  grow 
childlike  and  sweet  and  faithful.  The  mammon-eyes, 
hitherto  fixed  on  the  earth,  are  lifted  to  meet  their  kind ; 
the  lips  that  mumbled  over  figures  and  sums  of  gold 
learn  to  say  words  of  grace  and  tenderness.  The  trucu- 
lent, repellent,  self-satisfied  face  begins  to  look  thought- 
fill  and  doubtful,  as  if  searching  for  some  treasure  of 
irhose  whereabouts  it  had  no  certain  sign     The  face, 


THE    HARVEST.  4I9 


anxious,  wrinkled,  peering,  troubled,  on  whose  lines  you 
read  the  dread  of  hunger,  poverty,  and  nakedness,  thaws 
into  a  smile  ;  the  eyes  reflect  in  courage  the  light  of  the 
Father's  care ;  the  back  grows  erect  under  its  burden 
with  the  assurance  that  the  hairs  of  its  head  are  all 
numbered.  But  the  face  can  with  all  its  changes  set  but 
dimly  forth  the  rising  from  the  dead  which  passes  within. 
The  heart,  which  cared  but  for  itself,  becomes  aware  of 
surrounding  thousands  like  itself,  in  the  love  and  care 
of  which  it  feels  a  dawning  blessedness  undreamt  of  be- 
fore. From  selfishness  to  love — is  not  this  a  rising  frona 
the  dead  ?  The  man  whose  ambition  declares  that  his 
way  in  the  world  would  be  to  subject  everything  to  his 
'iesires,  to  bring  every  human  care,  affection,  power,  and 
aspiration  to  his  feel—such  a  world  it  would  be,  and 
such  a  king  it  would  have,  if  indivijdual  ambition  might 
work  its  will !  if  a  man's  opinion  of  himself  could  be 
made  out  in  the  world,  degrading,  compelling,  oppress- 
ing, doing  everything  for  his  own  glory ! — and  such  a 
glory  ! — but  a  pang  of  light  strikes  this  man  to  the  heart ; 
an  arrow  of  truth,  feathered  with  suffering  and  loss  and 
dismay,  finds  out — the  open  joint  in  his  armour,  I  was 
going  to  say — no,  finds  out  the  joint  in  the  coffin  where 
his  heart  lies  festering  in  a  death  so  dead  that  itself  calls 
it  life.  He  trembles,  he  awakes,  he  rises  from  the  dead. 
No  more  he  seeks  the  slavery  of  all :  where  can  he  find 
whom  to  serve  1  how  can  he  become  if  but  a  threshold 
in  the  temple  of  Christ,  where  all  serve  all,  and  no  man 
thinks  first  of  himself?  He  to  whom  the  mass  of  his 
fellows,  as  he  massed  them,  was  common  and  unclean, 


420  '  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

bows  before  every  human  sign  of  the  presence  of  the 
making  God.  The  sun,  which  was  to  him  but  a  candle 
with  which  to  search  after  his  own  ends,  wealth,  power, 
place,  praise — the  world,  which  was  but  the  cavern  where 
he  thus  searched — are  now  full  of  the  mystery  of  loveli- 
ness, full  of  the  truth  of  which  sun  and  wind  and  land 
and  sea  are  symbols  and  signs.  From  a  withered  old 
age  of  unbelief,  the  dim  eyes  of  which  refuse  the  glory 
of  things  a  passage  to  the  heart,  he  is  raised  up  a  child 
full  of  admiration,  wonder,  and  gladness.  Everything 
is  glorious  to  him  ;  he  can  believe,  and  therefore  he  sees. 
It  is  from  the  grave  into  the  sunshine,  from  the  night 
into  the  morning,  from  death  into  Hfe.  To  come  out  of 
the  ugly  into  the  beautiful  ;  out  of  the  mean  and  selfish 
into  the  noble  and  loving ;  out  of  the  paltry  into  the 
great ;  out  of  the  false  into  the  true ;  out  of  the  filthy 
into  the  clean;  out  of  the  commonplace  into  the  glorious; 
out  of  the  corruption  of  disease  into  the  fine  vigour  and 
gracious  movements  of  health  ;  in  a  word,  out  of  evil 
into  good — is  not  this  a  resurrection  indeed — the  resur- 
rection of  all,  the  resurrection  of  Life  1  God  grai.t  that 
with  St  Paul  we  may  attain  to  this  resurrection  of  the 
dead. 

"  This  rising  from  the  dead  is  often  a  long  and  a  pain- 
ful process.  Even  after  he  had  preached  the  gospel  to 
the  Gentiles,  and  suffered  much  for  the  sake  of  his 
Master,  Paul  sees  the  resurrection  of  the  dead  towering 
grandly  before  him,  not  yet  climbed,  not  yet  attained 
unto — a  mountainous  splendour  and  marvel  still  shining 
aloft  in  the  air  of  existence,  still,  thank  God,  to  be  at 


THE    HA.RVEST.  4JI 


tained,  but  ever  growing  in  height  and  beauty  as,  forget- 
ting those  things  that  are  behind,  he  presses  towards  the 
mark,  if  by  any  means  he  may  attain  to  the  resurrection 
of  the  dead.  Every  blessed  moment  in  which  a  man 
bethinks  himself  that  he  has  been  forgetting  his  high 
caUing,  and  sends  up  to  the  Father  a  prayer  for  aid ; 
every  time  a  man  resolves  that  what  he  has  been  doing 
he  will  do  no  more ;  every  time  that  the  love  of  God,  or 
the  feeling  of  the  truth,  rouses  a  man  to  look  first  up  at 
the  light,  then  down  at  the  skirts  of  his  own  garments — 
that  moment  a  divine  resurrection  is  wrought  in  the 
earth.  Yea,  every  time  that  a  man  passes  from  resent- 
ment to  forgiveness,  from  cruelty  to  coftipassion,  from 
hardness  to  tenderness,  from  indifference  to  carefulness, 
from  selfishness  to  honesty,  from  honesty  to  generosity, 
from  generosity  to  love, — a  resurrection,  the  bursting  of 
a  fresh  bud  of  life  out  of  the  grave  of  evil  gladdens  the 
eye  of  the  Father  watching  his  children.  Awake  then, 
thou  that  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the  dead,  and  Christ 
will  give  thee  light.  As  the  harvest  rises  from  the 
wintry  earth,  so  rise  thou  up  from  the  trials  of  this  world 
a  full  ear  in  the  harvest  of  him  who  sowed  thee  in  the 
soil  that  thou  migntesi  rise  aoove  it  As  the  summer 
rises  from  the  winter,  so  rise  thou  from  the  cares  of 
eating  and  drinking  and  clothing  into  the  fearless  sun- 
shine of  confidence  in  the  Father.  As  the  morning  rises 
out  of  the  night,  so  rise  thou  from  the  darkness  of  igno- 
rance to  do  the  will  of  God  in  the  daylight ;  and  as  a 
man  feels  that  he  is  himself  when  he  wakes  from  the 
troubled  and  grotesque  visions  of  the  night   into   tlif 


422  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


glory  of  th.^  sunrise,  even  so  wilt  thou  feel  that  then  first 
thou  knowest  what  thy  life,  the  gladness  of  thy  being,  is. 
As  from  painful  tossing  in  disease,  rise  into  the  health 
of  well-being.  As  from  the  awful  embrace  of  thy  own 
dead  body,  burst  forth  in  thy  spiritual  body.  Arise  thou, 
responsive  to  the  indwelling  will  of  the  Father,  even  as 
thy  body  will  respond  to  thy  indweUing  souL 

*  White  wings  are  crossing ; 

Glad  waves  are  tossing  ; 
The  earth  flames  out  in  crimson  and  greeo  t 

Spring  is  appearing, 

Summer  is  nearing-^— 
Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Down  in  some  cavern. 

Death's  sleepy  tavern, 
Housing,  carousing  with  spectres  of  night  t 

The  trumpet  is  pealing 

Sunshine  and  healing- 
Spring  to  the  light.' " 

With  this  quotation  from  a  friend's  poem,  I  closed  mjr 
sermon,  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  failure ;  for  ever  the 
marvel  of  simple  awaking,  the  mere  type  of  the  resurrec- 
tion eluded  all  my  efforts  to  fix  it  in  words.  I  had  to 
comfort  myself  with  the  thought  that  God  is  so  strong 
that  he  can  work  even  with  our  failures. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

A   WALK    WITH    MY   WIFK 

HE  autumn  was  creeping  up  on  the  earth, 

with  winter  holding  by  its  skirts  behind ;  but 
before  I  lose  my  hold  of  the  garments  of 
summer,  I  must  write  a  chapter  about  a 
walk  and  a  talk  I  had  one  night  with  my  wife.  It  had 
rained  a  good  deal  during  the  day,  but  as  the  sun  went 
down  the  air  began  to  clear,  and  when  the  moon  shone 
out,  near  the  full,  she  walked  the  heavens,  not  "  like  one 
that  hath  been  led  astray/'  but  as  "  queen  and  huntress, 
chaste  and  fair." 

"  What  ^  lovely  night  it  is  I "  said  Ethelwyn,  who  had 
come  into  my  study — where  I  always  sat  with  unblinded 
windows,  that  the  night  and  her  creatures  might  look  in 
upon  me — and  had  stood  gazing  out  for  a  moment 

"  Shall  we  go  for  a  little  turn  ?  "  I  said. 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,"  she  answered.  **  I  will 
go  and  put  on  my  bonnet  at  once." 


424  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

In  a  minute  or  two  she  looked  in  again,  all  ready.  I 
rose,  laid  aside  my  Plato,  and  went  with  her.  We  turned 
our  steps  along  the  edge  of  the  down,  and  descended 
upon  the  breakwater,  where  we  seated  ourselves  upon  the 
same  spot  where,  in  the  darkness,  I  had  heard  the  voices 
of  Joe  and  Agnes.  What  a  different  night  it  was  from 
that!  The  sea  lay  as  quiet  as  if  it  could  not  move  for 
the  moonlight  that  lay  upon  it  The  glory  over  it  was 
so  mighty  in  its  peacefulness,  that  the  wild  element 
beneath  was  afraid  to  toss  itself  even  with  the  motions 
of  its  natural  unrest.  The  moon  was  like  the  face  of  a 
saint  before  which  the  stormy  people  has  grown  dumb. 
The  rocks  stood  up  soHd  and  dark  in  the  universal  aether, 
and  the  pulse  of  the  ocean  throbbed  against  them  with 
a  lapping  gush,  soft  as  the  voice  of  a  passionate  child 
soothed  into  shame  of  its  VcUiislied  petulance.  But 
the  sky  was  the  glory.  Although  no  breath  moved  be- 
low, there  was  a  gentle  wind  abroAd  in  the  upper  regions. 
The  air  was  full  of  masses  of  cloi'vl,  the  vanishing  frag- 
ments of  the  one  great  vapour  whirli  had  been  pouring 
down  in  rain  the  most  of  the  day.  "lUcse  masses  were 
all  setting  with  one  steady  motion  eastward  into  the 
abysses  of  space  ;  now  obscuring  the  iAx  moon,  now 
solemnly  sweeping  away  from  before  her,  /Vs  they  de- 
parted, out  shone  her  marvellous  radianct,  as  calm  as 
ever.  It  was  plain  that  she  knew  nothinj;  of  what  we 
called  her  covering,  her  obscuration,  the  di'xx.Tvnf^  of  her 
glory.  She  had  been  busy  all  the  time  weavi."»p.  hei 
lovely  opaline  damask  on  the  other  side  of  the  ma>^  iii 
which  we  said  she  was  swallowed  up. 


A    WALK    WITH    MY    WIFE.  42$ 

**  Have  you  ever  noticed  wifie,"  I  said,  **  how  the  eyes 
of  our  minds — almost  our  bodily  eyes — are  opened  some- 
times to  the  cubicalness  of  nature,  as  it  were  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  Harry,  for  I  don't  understand  your 
question,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  stupid  way  of  expressing  what  I  meant 
No  human  being  could  have  understood  it  from  that.  I 
will  make  you  understand  in  a  moment,  though.  Som^ 
times — perhaps,  generally — we  see  the  sky  as  a  flat  dome, 
spangled  with  star-points,  and  painted  blue.  Now  I  see 
it  as  an  awful  depth  of  blue  air,  depth  within  depth  ;  and 
the  clouds  before  me  are  not  passing  away  to  the  left, 
but  sinking  away  from  the  front  of  me  into  the  marvel- 
lous unknown  regions,  which,  let  philosophers  say  what 
they  will  about  time  and  space — and  I  daresay  they  arc 
right — are  yet  very  awful  to  me.  Thank  God,  my  dear,* 
I  said,  catching  hold  of  her  arm,  as  tlie  tenor  of  mere 
space  grew  upon  me,  *'  for  Himself  He  is  deeper  than 
space,  deeper  than  time ;  he  is  the  heart  of  all  the  cube 
of  history." 

"  I  understand  you  now,  husband,"  said  my  wife. 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  I  answered. 

"  But,"  she  said  again,  "  is  it  not  something  the  same 
with  the  things  inside  usi  I  can't  put  it  in  words  as 
you  do.     Do  you  understand  me  now  %  " 

**  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do.     You  must  try  again." 

"You  understand  me  well  enough,  only  you  like  to 
make  me  blunder  where  you  can  talk,"  said  my  wife^ 
putting  her  hand  in  mine.  **  But  I  will  try.  Sometimesi 
after  thinking  about  somethmg  for  a  long  time,  you  come 


426  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

to  a  conclusion  about  it,  and  you  think  you  have  settled 
it  plain  and  clear  to  yourself,  for  ever  and  a  day.  You 
hang  it  upon  your  wall,  like  a  picture,  and  are  satisfitd 
for  a  fortnight.  But  some  day,  when  you  happen  to 
cast  a  look  at  it,  you  find  that  instead  of  hanging  flat  on 
the  wall,  your  picture  has  gone  through  it — opens  out 
into  some  region  you  don't  know  where — shows  you  far 
receding  distances  of  air  and  sea — in  short,  where  you 
thought  one  question  was  settled  for  ever,  a  hundred  are 
opened  up  for  the  present  hour." 

"  Bravo,  wife  1 "  I  cried  in  true  delight.  "  I  do  indeed 
understand  you  now.  You  have  said  it  better  than  I 
could  ever  have  done.  That 's  the  plague  of  you  women ! 
You  have  been  taught  for  centuries  and  centuries  that 
there  is  little  or  nothing  to  be  expected  of  you,  and 
so  you  won't  try.  Therefore  we  men  know  no  more 
than  you  do  whether  it  is  in  you  or  not.  And  when  you 
do  try,  instead  of  trying  to  think,  you  want  to  be  in 
Parliament  all  at  once." 

"  Do  you  apply  that  remark  to  me,  sir  V  demanded 
Ethehvyn. 

"  You  must  submit  to  bear  the  sins  of  your  kind  upon 
occasion,"  I  answered. 

*•  I  am  content  to  do  that,  so  long  as  yours  will  help 
mine,"  she  replied. 

"Then  I  may  go  onl"  I  said,  with  interroga- 
tion. 

"  Till  sunrise  if  you  like.  We  were  talking  of  the 
CJibicalness — I  believe  you  called  it — of  nature." 

*  And  you  capped  it  with  the  cubicalness  of  thought 


A    WALK    WITH    MY    WIFE.  427 

And  quite  right  too.  There  are  people,  as  a  dear  friend 
of  mine  used  to  say,  who  are  so  accustomed  to  regard 
everything  in  the  flat,  as  dogma  cut  and — not  always 
dried  my  moral  olfactories  aver — that  if  you  prove  to 
them  the  very  thing  they  believe,  but  after  another  mode 
than  that  they  have  been  accustomed  to,  they  are 
offended,  and  count  you  a  heretic.  There  is  no  help  for 
it  Even  St  Paul's  chief  opposition  came  from  the 
Judaizing  Christians  of  his  time,  who  did  not  believe 
that  God  could  love  the  Gentiles,  and  therefore  regarded 
him  as  a  teacher  of  falsehood.  We  must  not  be  fierce 
with  them.  Who  knows  what  wickedness  of  their  ances- 
tors goes  to  account  for  their  stupidity  %  For  that  there 
are  stupid  people,  and  that  they  are,  in  very  conse- 
quence of  their  stupidity,  conceited,  who  can  deny? 
The  worst  of  it  is,  that  no  man  who  is  conceited  can  be 
convinced  of  the  fact." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Harry.  That  is  to  deny  conversion." 
**You  are  right,  Ethelwyn.  The  moment  a  man  is 
convinced  of  his  folly,  he  ceases  to  be  a  fool.  The 
moment  a  man  is  convinced  of  his  conceit,  he  ceases  to 
be  conceited.  But  there  must  be  a  final  judgment,  and 
the  true  man  will  welcome  it,  even  if  he  is  to  appear  a 
convicted  fool.  A  man's  business  is  to  see  first  that  he 
is  not  acting  the  part  of  a  fool,  and  next,  to  help  any 
honest  people  who  care  about  the  matter  to  take  heed 
likewise  that  they  be  not  offering  to  pull  the  mote  out  of 
their  brother's  eye.  But  there  are  even  societies  es- 
tablished and  supported  by  good  people  for  the  expresi 
purpose  of  ^uUing  out  motcj.— 'The  Mote-PuJiing  So 


426  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

ciety!' — That  ought  to  take  with  a  certain  part  of  the 
public." 

"  Come,  come,  Harry.  You  are  absurd.  Such  people 
don't  come  near  you." 

"  They  can't  touch  me.  No.  But  they  come  near 
good  people  whom  I  know,  brandishing  the  long  pins 
with  which  they  pull  the  motes  out,  and  threatening 
them  with  judgment  before  their  time.  They  are  but 
pins,  to  be  sure — not  daggers." 

**  But  you  have  wandered,  Harry,  into  the  narrowest^, 
anderground,  musty  ways,  and  have  forgotten  all  about 
*  the  cubicalness  of  nature.' " 

"  You  are  right,  my  love,  as  you  generally  are,'*  I 
answered,  laughing.  "  Look  at  that  great  antlered  elk, 
or  moose — fit  quarry  for  Diana  of  the  silver  bow.  Look 
how  it  glides  solemnly  away  into  the  unpastured  depths 
of  the  aerial  deserts.  Look  again  at  that  reclining 
giant,  half  raised  upon  his  arm,  with  his  face  turned  to- 
wards the  wilderness.  What  eyes  they  must  be  under 
those  huge  brows !  On  what  message  to  the  nations  is 
he  borne,  as  by  the  slow  sweep  of  ages,  on  towards  his 
mysterious  goal  ] " 

"  Stop,  stop,  Harry,**  said  my  wife.  "  It  makes  me  un- 
happy to  hear  grand  words  clothing  only  cloudy  fancies. 
Such  words  ought  to  be  used  about  the  truth,  and  the 
truth  only." 

"  If  I  could  carry  it  no  further,  my  dear,  then  it  would 
indeed  be  a  degrading  of  words.  But  there  never  was 
a  vagary  that  uplifted  the  soul,  or  made  the  grand  words 
flow  from  the  gates  of  speech,  that  had  not  its  counter 


A    WALK    WITH    MY    WIFE,  429 

part  in  truth  itself.  Man  can  imagine  nothing,  even  in 
the  clouds  of  the  air,  that  God  has  not  done,  or  is  not 
doing.  Even  as  that  cloudy  giant  )delds,  and  is  *  shep- 
herded by  the  slow  unwilHng  wind,'  so  is  each  of  us  borne 
onward  to  an  unseen  destiny — a  glorious  one  if  we  will 
but  yield  to  the  Spirit  of  God  that  bloweth  where  it 
listeth — with  a  grand  listing — coming  whence  we  know 
not,  and  going  whither  we  know  not.  The  very  clouda 
of  the  air  are  hung  up  as  dim  pictures  of  the  thoughts 
and  history  of  man." 

"  I  do  not  mind  how  long  you  talk  like  that,  husband, 
even  if  you  take  the  clouds  for  your  text.  But  it  did 
make  me  miserable  to  think  that  what  you  were  saying 
had  no  more  basis  than  the  fantastic  forms  which  the 
clouds  assume.     I  see  I  was  wrong,  though." 

"The  clouds  themselves,  in  such  a  solemn  stately 
march  as  this,  used  to  make  me  sad  for  the  very  same 
reason.  I  used  to  think,  What  is  it  all  for?  They  are 
but  vapours  blown  by  the  wind.  They  come  nowhence, 
and  they  go  nowhither.  But  now  I  see  them  and  all 
things  as  ever  moving  symbols  of  the  motions  of  man's 
spirit  and  destiny." 

A  pause  followed,  during  which  we  sat  and  watched 
the  marvellous  depth  of  the  heavens,  deep  as  I  do  not 
think  I  ever  saw  them  before  or  since,  covered  with  a 
stately  procession  of  ever-appearing  and  ever-vanishing 
forms — great  sculpturesque  blocks  of  a  shattered  storm 
--the  icebergs  of  the  upper  sea.  These  were  not  far 
oft'  against  a  blue  background,  but  floating  near  us  in 
the  heart  of  a  blue-black  space,  gloriously  lighted  by  a 


430  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

golden  rather  than  silvery  moon.  At  length  my  wife 
spoke. 

"  I  hope  Mr  Percivale  is  out  to  night/'  she  said 
"  How  he  must  be  enjoying  it  if  he  is !  " 

**  I  wonder  the  young  man  is  not  returning  to  his  pro- 
fessional labours,"  I  said.  "  Few  artists  can  afford  such 
long  holidays  as  he  is  taking." 

**  He  is  laying  in  stock,  though,  I  suppose/'  answered 
my  wife. 

"  I  doubt  that,  my  dear.  He  said  not,  on  one  occa' 
sion,  you  may  remember." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  But  still  he  must  paint  better 
the  more  familiar  he  gets  with  the  things  God  cares  to 
fashion." 

"  Doubtless.  But  I  am  afraid  the  work  of  God  he  is 
chiefly  studying  at  present  is  our  Wynnie." 

**  Well,  is  she  not  a  woithy  object  of  his  study?" 
returned  Ethelwyn,  looking  up  in  my  face  with  an  arch 
expression. 

"  Doubtless,  again,  Ethel ;  but  I  hope  she  is  not 
studying  him  quite  so  much  in  her  turn.  I  have  seen 
her  eyes  following  him  about." 

My  wife  made  no  answer  for  a  moment  Then  she 
said, 

"  Don't  you  like  him,  Harry  1" 

**  Ves.     I  like  him  very  much." 

•*  Then  why  should  you  not  like  Wynnie  to  like 
him  \ " 

"  1  should  like  to  be  surer  of  his  principles,  for  on« 
Uiing." 


A    WALK    WITH    MY    WIFE.  43I 

**  I  should  like  to  be  surer  of  Wynnie's." 

I  was  silent.     Ethelwyn  resumed. 

"  Don't  you  think  they  might  do  each  other 
good?" 

Still  I  could  not  reply. 

"  They  both  love  the  truth,  I  am  sure  ;  only  they  don't 
perhaps  know  what  it  is  yet  I  think  if  they  were  to  fall 
in  love  with  each  other,  it  would  very  likely  make  them 
both  more  desirous  of  finding  it  still." 

"  Perhaps,"  I  said  at  last.  "  But  you  are  talking  about 
awfully  serious  things,  Ethelwyn." 

"Yes,  as  serious  as  life,"  she  answered. 

"  You  make  me  very  anxious,"  I  said.  "  The  young 
man  has  not,  I  fear,  any  means  of  gaining  a  livelihood 
for  more  than  himself." 

"  Why  should  he,  before  he  wanted  it  ?  I  like  to  see  a 
man  who  can  be  content  with  an  art  and  a  living  by 
it" 

**  I  hope  I  have  not  been  to  blame  in  allowing  them 
to  see  so  much  of  each  other,"  I  said,  hardly  heeding  my 
wife's  words. 

"  It  came  about  quite  naturally,"  she  rejoined.  "  If 
you  had  opposed  their  meeting,  you  would  have  been 
interfering  just  as  if  you  had  been  Providence.  And  you 
would  have  only  made  them  think  more  about  each 
Other." 

"lie  hasn't  said  anything — has  hel"  I  asked  in  posi- 
tive alarm. 

"  Oh  dear  no.  It  may  be  all  my  fancy.  I  am  only 
looking  a  little  ahead.     1  coniess  I  should  like  him  loi 


43*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

a  son-in-law.  I  approve  of  him,"  she  added,  with  a  sweet 
laugh. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  suppose  sons-in-law  are  possible, 
however  disagreeable,  results  of  having  daughters. 

I  tried  to  laugh,  but  hardly  succeeded. 

"Harry,"  said  my  wife,  "I  don't  hke  you  in  such  a 
mood.     It  is  not  like  you  at  all.     It  is  unworthy  of  you." 

"  How  can  I  help  being  anxious  when  you  speak  of 
such  dreadful  things  as  the  possibility  of  having  to  give 
away  my  daughter,  my  precious  wonder  that  came  to  me 
through  you,  out  of  the  infinite — the  tender  little  dar- 
ling ! " 

"  *Out  of  the  heart  of  God,'  you  used  to  say,  Henry. 
Ves,  and  with  a  destiny  he  had  ordained.  It  is  strange 
to  me  how  you  forget  your  best  and  noblest  teaching 
sometimes.  You  are  always  telling  us  to  trust  in  God. 
Surely  it  is  a  poor  creed  that  will  only  allow  us  to  trust 
in  God  for  ourselves — a  very  selfish  creed.  There  must 
be  something  wrong  there,  I  should  say  that  the  man 
who  can  only  trust  God  for  himself  is  not  half  a  Chris- 
tian. Either  he  is  so  selfish  that  that  satisfies  him,  or  he 
has  such  a  poor  notion  of  God  that  he  cannot  trust  him 
with  what  most  concerns  him.  The  foimer  is  not  your 
case,  Harry:  is  the  latter,  then? — You  see  I  must 
take  my  turn  at  the  preaching  sometimes.  Mayn't  I, 
dearest  1 " 

She  took  my  hand  in  both  of  hers.  The  truth  arose 
in  my  heart.  I  never  loved  my  wife  more  than  at  that 
moment  And  now  I  could  not  speak  for  other  reasons. 
I  saw  that  I  had  been  faithless  to  my  God,  and  the  mo- 


A    WALK    WITH     MY    WIFE.  433 

ment  I  could  command  my  speech,  I  hastened  to  con- 
fess it. 

"  You  are  right,  ray  dear,"  I  said,  "  quite  right.  I 
have  been  wicked,  for  I  have  been  denying  my  God, 
I  have  been  putting  my  providence  in  the  place  of  his 
— trying,  Hke  an  anxious  fool,  to  count  the  hairs  on 
Wynnie's  head,  instead  of  being  content  that  the  grand, 
loving  Father  should  count  them.  My  love,  let  us  pray 
for  Wynnie ;  for  what  is  prayer  but  giving  her  to  God 
and  his  holy,  blessed  will  V 

We  sat  hand  in  hand.  Neither  spoke  aloud  for  some 
minutes,  but  we  spoke  in  our  hearts  to  God,  talking  to 
him  about  Wynnie.  Then  we  rose  together,  and  walked 
homeward,  still  in  silence.  But  my  heart  and  hand  clung 
to  my  wife  as  to  the  angel  whom  God  had  sent  to  deliver 
me  out  of  the  prison  of  my  faithlessness.  And  as  we 
went,  lo  !  the  sky  was  glorious  again.  It  had  faded  from 
my  sight,  had  grown  flat  as  a  dogma,  uninteresting  as  "  a 
foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours ; "  the  moon 
had  been  but  a  round  thing  with  the  sun  shining  upon 
it,  and  the  stars  were  only  minding  their  own  business. 
But  now  the  solemn  march  towards  an  unseen,  un- 
imagined  goal  had  again  begun.  Wynnie's  life  was  hid 
with  Christ  in  God.  Away  strode  the  cloudy  pageant 
with  its  banners  blowing  in  the  wind,  which  blew  where 
it  grandly  listed,  marching  as  to  a  solemn  triumphal 
music  that  drew  them  from  afar  towards  the  gates  of 
pearl  by  which  the  morning  walks  out  of  the  New  Jeru- 
salem to  gladden  the  nations  of  the  earth  Solitary  stars, 
with  all  their  sparkles  drawn  in,  shone,  quiet  as  human 

2  E 


434  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


eyes,  ih  the  deep  solemn  clefts  of  dark  blue  air.  They 
looked  restrained  and  still,  as  if  they  knew  all  about  it 
— all  about  the  secret  of  this  midniffht  inarch.  For 
the  moon — she  saw  tne  sun,  and  iheiefore  made  tht 
earth  glad. 

*'  You  have  been  a  moon  to  me,  this  night,  my  wife  * 
1  said.  "  You  were  looking  full  at  the  truth,  while  I  was 
dark.  I  saw  its  light  in  your  face,  and  believed,  and 
turned  my  soul  to  the  sun.  And  now  I  am  both  ashamed 
and  glad.     God  keep  me  from  sinning  so  again." 

"  My  dear  husband,  it  was  only  a  mood — a  passing 
mood,"  said  Ethelwyn,  seeking  to  comfort  me. 

"  It  was  a  mood,  and  thank  God,  it  is  now  past ;  but 
it  was  a  wicked  one.  It  was  a  mood  in  which  the  Lord 
might  have  called  me  a  devil,  as  he  did  St  Peter.  Such 
moods  have  to  be  grappled  with  and  fought  the  moment 
they  appear.  They  must  not  have  their  way  for  a  single 
thought  even." 

**  But  we  can't  help  it  always,  can  we,  husband?" 

**  We  can't  help  it  out  and  out,  because  our  wills  are 
not  yet  free  with  the  freedom  God  is  giving  us  as  fast  as 
we  will  let  him.  When  we  are  able  to  will  thoroughly, 
then  we  shall  do  what  we  will.  At  least,  I  think  we 
shall.  But  there  is  a  mystery  in  it  God  only  understands. 
All  we  know  is,  that  we  can  struggle  and  pray.  But  a 
mood  is  an  awful  oppression  sometimes  when  you  least 
believe  in  it  and  most  wish  to  get  rid  of  it.  It  is  like  a 
headache  in  the  soul." 

"  What  do  the  people  do  that  don't  believe  in  God  I* 
said  Ethelwvn. 


A    WALK    WITH    MY    WIFE.  435 

The  same  moment  Wynnie,  who  had  seen  us  pass  the 
window,  opened  the  door  of  the  bark-house  for  us,  and 
we  passed  into  Connie's  chamber  and  found  her  lying 
in  the  moonlight,  gazing  at  the  same  heavens  as  her 
lather  and  mother  had  been  revelling  ia» 


CHAPTER   XXXTI. 

OUR    LAST   SHORE-DINNER. 

'HE  next  day  was  very  lovely.  I  think  it  ii 
the  last  of  the  kind  of  which  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  write  in  my  narrative  of  the 
Seaboard  Parish.  I  wonder  if  my  readers 
are  tired  of  so  much  about  the  common  things  of  Nature. 
I  reason  about  it  something  in  this  way : — We  are  so 
easily  affected  by  the  smallest  things  that  are  of  the 
unpleasant  kind,  that  we  ought  to  train  ourselves  to  the 
influence  of  those  that  are  of  an  opposite  nature.  The 
unpleasant  ones  are  like  the  thorns  which  make  them- 
selves felt  as  we  scramble — for  we  often  do  scramble  in 
a  very  undignified  manner — through  the  thickets  of  life  j 
and,  feeling  the  thorns,  we  grumble,  and  are  blind  to  all 
but  the  thorns.  The  flowers  and  the  lovely  leaves  and 
the  red  berries  and  the  clusters  of  filberts  and  the  birds*- 
nests,  do  not  force  themselves  upon  our  attention  as  the 
tliorns  do,  and   the  thorns  make  us  fur^et  to  look  loi 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  437 

them.  But  a  scratch  would  be  forgotten — and  that  in 
mental  hurts  is  often  equivalent  to  a  cure,  for  a  forgotten 
scratch  on  the  mind  or  heart  will  never  fester — if  we 
but  allowed  our  being  a  moment's  repose  upon  any  of 
the  quiet,  waiting,  unobtrusive  beauties  that  lie  around 
the  half  trodden  way,  offering  their  gentle  healing.  And 
when  I  think  how,  not  unfrequently,  otherwise  noble 
characters  are  anything  but  admirable  when  under  the 
influence  of  trifling  irritations,  the  very  paltriness  of 
which  seems  what  the  mind,  which  would  at  once  rouse 
itself  to  a  noble  endurance  of  any  mighty  evil,  is  unable 
to  endure,  I  would  gladly  help  so  with  sweet  antidotes 
to  defeat  the  fly  in  the  ointment  of  the  apothecary  that 
the  whole  pot  shall  send  forth  a  pure  savour.  We  ought 
for  this  to  cultivate  the  friendships  of  little  things. 
Beauty  is  one  of  the  surest  antidotes  to  vexation.  Often 
when  life  looked  dreary  about  me,  from  some  real  or 
fancied  injustice  or  indignity,  has  a  thought  of  truth 
been,  flashed  into  my  mind  from  a  flower,  a  shape  of 
frost,  or  even  a  lingering  shadow, — not  to  mention  such 
glories  as  angel-winged  clouds,  rainbows,  stars,  and  sun- 
rises. Therefore  I  hope  that  in  my  loving  delay  over 
such  aspects  of  Nature  as  impressed  themselves  upon 
me  in  this  most  memorable  part  of  my  history,  I  shall 
not  prove  wearisome  to  my  reader,  for  therein  I  should 
utterly  contravene  my  hope  and  intent  in  the  recording 
of  them. 

This  day  there  was  to  be  an  unusually  low  tide,  and 
we  had  reckoned  of  enlarging  our  acquaintance  with  the 
bed  of  the  ocean- — of  knowing  a  few  yards  more  of  tha 


43^  THF     SFAKOARD    PARISH. 

millions  of  miles  lapt  in  the  mystery  of  waters.  It  was 
to  be  low  water  about  two  o'clock,  and  we  resolved  to 
dine  upon  the  sands.  But  all  the  morning  the  children 
were  out  playing  on  the  threshold  of  old  Neptune's 
palace;  for  in  his  quieter  mood,  he  will,  like  a  fierce 
mastiff,  let  children  do  with  him  what  they  will.  I  gave 
myself  a  whole  'holiday — sometimes  the  most  precious 
part  of  my  life  both  for  myself  and  those  for  whom  I 
labour — and  wandered  about  on  the  shore,  now  passing 
the  children  and  assailed  with  a  volley  of  cries  and 
entreaties  to  look  at  this  one's  castle  and  that  one's 
ditch,  now  leaving  them  behind,  with  what  in  its  un- 
graduated  flatness  might  well  enough  personate  an  end- 
less desert  of  sand  between,  over  the  expanse  of  which 
I  could  imagine  them  disappearing  on  a  far  horizon, 
whence,  however,  a  faint  occasional  cry  of  excitement 
and  pleasure  would  reach  my  ears.  The  sea  was  so 
calm,  and  the  shore  so  gently  sloping,  that  you  could 
hardly  tell  where  the  sand  ceased  and  the  sea  began — 
the  water  sloped  to  such  a  thin  pellicle,  thinner  than  any 
knife  edge,  upon  the  shining  brown  sand,  and  you  saw 
the  sand  underneath  the  water  to  such  a  distance  out 
Yet  this  depth,  which  would  not  drown  a  red  spider,  was 
the  ocean.  In  my  mind  I  followed  that  bed  of  shining 
sand,  bared  of  its  hiding  waters,  out  and  out,  till  I  tvas 
lost  in  an  awful  wilderness  of  chasms,  precipiceS:  and 
mountain  peaks,  in  whose  caverns  the  sea-serpent  l  ay 
dwell,  with  his  breath  of  pestilence;  the  krakcn,  ivitil 
•*  his  sk?ly  rind,"  may  there  be  sleeping 

•*  His  ancient  dieamless,  uninvatled  sl<ep^** 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  439 

while 

"  faintest  sunlights  flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides," 

as  he  lies 

•*  Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his  sleep.* 

There  may  lie  all  the  horrors  that  Schiller's  diver  en- 
countered— ^the  frightful  Molch,  and  that  worst  of  all,  to 
which  he  gives  no  name,  which  came  creeping  with  a 
hundred  knots  at  once ;  but  here  are  only  the  gracious 
rainbow-woven  shells,  an  evanescent  jelly  or  two,  and 
the  queer  baby-crabs  that  crawl  out  from  the  holes  of  the 
bordering  rocks.  What  awful  gradations  of  gentleness 
lead  from  such  as  these  down  to  those  caverns  where 
wallow  the  inventions  of  Nature's  infancy,  when  like  a 
child  of  untutored  imagination,  she  drew  on  the  slate  of 
her  fancy  creations  in  which  flitting  shadows  of  beauty 
serve  only  to  heighten  the  shuddering,  gruesome  horror  1 
The  sweet  sun  and  air,  the  hand  of  man,  and  the  growth 
of  the  ages,  have  all  but  swept  such  from  the  upper  plains 
of  the  earth :  what  hunter's  bow  has  twanged,  what  ad- 
venturer's rifle  has  cracked  in  those  leagues  of  mountain 
waste,  vaster  than  all  the  upper  world  can  show,  where 
the  beasts  of  the  ocean  "  graze  the  sea-weed,  their  pas- 
ture "  1  Diana  of  the  silver  bow  herself,  when  she  de- 
scends into  the  interlunar  caves  of  hell,  sends  no  such 
monsters  fleeing  from  her  spells.  Yet  if  such  there  be, 
such  horrors  too  must  lie  in  the  undiscovered  caves  of 
man's  nature,  of  which  all  this  outer  world  is  but  a  typi- 
cal analysis.  By  equally  slow  gradations  may  the  inner 
eye  descend  from  the  truth  of  a  Cordelia  to  the  falsthuod 


<40  THE     SEABOARD    PARISH. 

of  an  lago.  As  these  golden  sands  slope  from  the  sun* 
li^ht  into  the  wallowing  abyss  of  darkness,  even  so  from 
the  love  of  the  child  to  his  holy  mother  slopes  the  inclined 
plane  of  humanity  to  the  hell  of  the  sensualist.  "  But 
with  one  difference  in  the  moral  world,"  I  said  aloud,  as 
I  paced  up  and  down  on  the  shimmering  margin — "that 
everywhere  in  the  scale  the  eye  of  the  all-seeing  Father 
can  detect  the  first  quiver  of  the  eyelid  that  would  raise 
itself  heavenward,  responsive  to  his  waking  spirit."  I 
lifted  my  eyes  in  the  relief  of  the  thought,  and  saw  how 
the  sun  of  the  autumn  hung  above  the  waters  oppressed 
with  a  mist  of  his  own  glory ;  far  away  to  the  left  a  man 
who  had  been  clambering  on  a  low  rock,  inaccessible 
save  in  such  a  tide,  gathering  mussels,  threw  himselt 
into  the  sea  and  swam  ashore;  above  his  head  the  storm- 
tower  stood  in  the  stormless  air ;  the  sea  glittered  and 
shone,  and  the  long-winged  birds  knew  not  which  to 
choose,  the  balmy  air  or  the  cool  deep,  now  flitting  like 
arrow-heads  through  the  one,  now  alighting  eagerly  upon 
the  other,  to  forsake  it  anew  for  the  thinner  element  I 
thanked  God  for  his  glory. 

"Oh,  papa,  it's  so  jolly  1  So  jolly!"  shouted  the 
children  as  I  passed  them  again. 

"■  What  is  it  that 's  so  jolly,  Charlie?  "  I  asked. 

**  My  castle/*  screeched  Harry  in  reply ;  "  only  it  'a 
tumbled  down.  The  water  would  keep  coming  in  under 
neath.*' 

**  I  tried  to  stop  it  with  a  newspaper,"  cried  Charlie^ 
•*  but  it  wouldn't.  So  we  were  forced  to  let  it  be,  and 
down  it  went  into  the  ditch.** 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  44I 

"  We  blew  it  up  rather  than  surrender,**  said  Dora. 
"  We  did.  Only  Harry  always  forgets,  and  says  it  was 
the  water  did  it*' 

I  drew  near  the  rock  that  held  the  bath.  I  had  never 
approached  it  from  this  side  before.  It  vvas  high  above 
my  head,  and  a  stream  of  water  was  flowing  from  it  I 
scrambled  up,  undressed  and  plunged  into  its  dark  hol- 
low, where  I  felt  like  one  of  the  sea-beasts  of  which  I 
had  been  dreaming,  down  in  the  caves  of  the  unvisited 
ocean.  But  the  sun  was  over  my  head,  and  the  air  with 
an  edge  of  the  winter  was  about  me.  I  dressed  quickly, 
descended  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock,  and  wandered 
again  on  the  sands  to  seaward  of  the  breakwater, 
which  lay  above  looking  dry  and  weary,  and  worn  with 
years  of  contest  with  the  waves,  which  had  at  length 
withdrawn  defeated  to  their  own  country,  and  left  it  as 
if  to  victory  and  a  useless  age  of  peace.  How  different 
was  the  scene  when  a  raving  mountain  of  water  filled  all 
the  hollow  where  I  now  wandered,  and  rushed  over  the 
top  of  that  mole  now  so  high  above  me,  and  I  had  to 
cling  to  its  stones  to  keep  me  from  being  carried  off  like 
a  bit  of  floating  sea-weed !  This  was  the  loveliest  and 
strangest  part  of  the  shore.  Several  long  low  ridges  ol 
rock,  of  whose  existence  I  scarcely  knew,  worn  to  a  level 
with  the  sand,  hollowed  and  channelled  with  the  terrible 
run  of  the  tide  across  them,  and  looking  like  the  old 
and  outworn  cheek-teeth  of  some  awful  beast  of  prey, 
stretched  out  seawards.  Here  and  there  amongst  them 
rose  a  well-known  rock,  but  now  so  changed  in  look  by 
being  hfted  all   the  height  beHcen  the  base  on  thi 


442  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


waters,  and  the  second  base  in  the  sand,  that  I 
wondered  at  each,  walking  round  and  viewing  it  on  all 
sides.  It  seemed  almost  a  fresh  giowth  out  of  the 
garden  of  the  shore,  with  uncouth  hollows  arourd  its 
fungous  root,  and  a  forsaken  air  about  its  brows  as  't 
stood  in  the  dry  sand  and  looked  seaward.  But  what 
made  the  chief  delight  of  the  spot,  closed  in  by  rocks 
from  the  open  sands,  was  the  multitude  of  fairy  rivers 
that  flowed  across  it  to  the  sea.  The  gladness  these 
streams  gave  me  I  cannot  communicate.  The  tide  had 
filled  thousands  of  hollows  in  the  breakwater,  hundreds 
of  cracked  basins  in  the  rocks,  huge  sponges  of  sand ; 
from  all  of  which — from  cranny  and  crack,  and  oozing 
sponge — the  water  flowed  in  restricted  haste  back,  back 
to  the  sea,  tumbling  in  tiny  cataracts  down  the  faces  ot 
the  rocks,  bubbling  from  their  roots  as  from  wells, 
gathering  in  tanks  of  sand,  and  overflowing  in  broad, 
shallow  streams,  curving  and  sweeping  in  their  sandy 
channels  just  like  the  great  rivers  of  a  continent ; — here 
spreading  into  smooth,  silent  lakes  and  reaches,  heic 
babbling  along  in  ripples  and  waves  innumerable — flow- 
ing, flowing,  to  lose  their  small  beings  in  the  same  ocean 
t  lat  met  on  the  other  side  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi, 
the  Orinoco,  the  Amazon.  All  their  channels  were  of 
golden  sand,  and  the  golden  sunlight  was  above  and 
through  and  in  them  all :  gold  and  gold  met,  with  the 
waters  1)etween.  And  what  gave  an  added  life  to  theii 
motion  was  that  all  the  ripples  made  shadows  on  the 
clear  yellow  below  them.  The  eye  could  not  see  the 
rippling  on  the  surface ;  but  the  sun  saw  it,  and  drew  it 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  44J 


in  multitudinous  shadowy  motion  upon  the  sand,  with 
the  play  of  a  thousand  fancies  of  gold  burnished  and 
dead,  of  sunlight  and  yellowj  trembling,  melting,  curving, 
blending,  vanishing  ever,  ever  renewed.  It  was  as  if  all 
the  water-marks  upon  a  web  of  golden  silk  had  been  set 
in  wildest  yet  most  graceful  curvilinear  motion  by  the 
breath  of  a  hundred  playful  zephyrs.  My  eye  could  not 
be  filled  with  seeing.  I  stood  in  speechless  delight  for 
a  while,  gazing  at  the  '*  endless  ending"  which  was  "  the 
humour  of  the  game,"  and  thinking  how  in  all  God's 
works  the  laws  of  beauty  are  wrought  out  in  evanish- 
ment,  in  birth  and  death.  There,  there  is  no  hoarding, 
but  an  ever  fresh  creating,  an  eternal  flow  of  life  from 
the  heart  of  the  All-beautiful.  Hence,  even  the  heart  of 
man  cannot  hoard.  His  brain  or  his  hand  may  gather 
into  its  box  and  hoard ,.  but  the  moment  the  thing  has 
passed  into  the  box,  the  heart  has  lost  it  and  is  hungry 
again.  If  man  would  have^  it  is  the  giver  he  must  have ; 
the  eternal,  the  original,  the  ever-outpouring  is  alone 
within  his  reach  ;  the  everlasting  creation  is  his  heritage. 
Therefore,  all  that  he  makes  must  be  free  to  come  and 
go  through  the  heart  of  his  child ;  he  can  enjoy  it  only 
as  it  passes,  can  enjoy  only  its  life,  its  soul,  its  vision, 
its  meaning,  not  itself.  To  hoard  rubies  and  sapphires 
is  as  useless  and  hopeless  for  the  heart,  as  if  I  were  to 
attempt  to  hoard  this  marvel  of  sand  and  water  and  sun- 
light in  the  same  iron  chest  with  the  musty  deeds  of  my 
wife's  inheritance. 

"  Father,"  I  murmured  half  aloud,  "  th  ju  alone  ai^ 
mid  I  am  because  thou  art     Thy  will  shall  be  mine," 


444  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

I  know  that  I  must  have  spoken  aloud,  because  I 
remember  the  start  of  consciousness  and  discomposure 
occasioned  by  the  voice  of  Percivale  greeting  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added,  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
startle  you,  Mr  Walton.  I  thought  you  were  only  look- 
ing at  Nature's  childplay — not  thinking." 

"  I  know  few  things  more  fit  to  set  one  thinking  than 
what  you  have  very  well  called  Nature's  childplay,"  J 
returned.  "  Is  Nature  very  heartless  now,  do  you  think; 
to  go  on  with  this  kind  of  thing  at  our  feet,  when  away 
up  yonder  lies  the  awful  London  with  so  many  sores 
festering  in  her  heart  ? " 

"  You  must  answer  your  own  question,  Mr  Walton, 
You  know  I  cannot.  I  confess  I  feel  the  difficulty  deeply. 
I  will  go  further  and  confess  that  the  discrepancy  makes 
me  doubt  many  things  I  would  gladly  believe.  I  know 
you  are  able  to  distinguish  between  a  glad  unbeHef  and  a 
sorrowful  doubt." 

"  Else  were  I  unworthy  of  the  humblest  place  in  the 
kingdom — unworthy  to  be  a  doorkeeper  in  the  house  of 
my  God,"  I  answered,  and  recoiled  from  the  sound  of 
my  own  words,  for  they  seemed  to  imply  that  I  believed 
myself  worthy  of  the  position  I  occupied.  I  hastened  to 
correct  them.  "  But  do  not  mistake  my  thoughts,"  I 
said.  "  I  do  not  dream  of  worthiness  in  the  way  of 
honour — only  of  fitness  for  the  work  to  be  done.  For 
that  I  think  God  has  fitted  me  in  some  measure.  The 
doorkeeper's  office  may  be  given  him  not  because  he 
has  done  some  great  deed  worthy  of  the  honour,  but 
because  he  can  sw(  ep  the  porcn  and  scour  the  threshol(i 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  445 


and  will,  in  the  main,  try  to  keep  them  clean.  That  If 
all  the  worthiness  I  dare  to  claim,  even  to  hope  that  1 
possess." 

**  No  one  who  knows  you  can  mistake  your  words, 
except  wilfully,"  returned  Percivale,  courteously. 

*•  1  hank  you,"  I  said.  "  Now  I  will  just  ask  you,  in 
reference  to  the  contrast  between  human  life  and  nature, 
how  you  will  go  back  to  your  work  in  London  after 
seeing  all  this  child's  and  other  play  of  Nature  ?  Suppose 
you  had  had  nothing  here  but  rain  and  high  winds  and  sea 
fogs,  would  you  have  been  better  fitted  for  doing  some- 
thing to  comfort  those  who  know  nothing  of  such  influ- 
ences than  you  will  be  now  ?  One  of  the  most  important 
qualifications  of  a  sick  nurse  is  a  ready  smile.  A  long- 
faced  nurse  in  a  sick  room  is  a  visible  embodiment  and 
presence  of  the  disease  against  which  the  eager  life  of  the 
patient  is  fighting  in  agony.  Such  ought  to  be  banished, 
with  their  black  dresses  and  their  mourning-shop  looks, 
from  every  sick  chamber,  and  permitted  to  minister  only 
to  the  dead,  who  do  not  mind  looks.  With  what  a 
power  of  life  and  hope  does  a  woman — young  or  old,  I 
do  not  care — with  a  face  of  the  morning,  a  dress  like 
the  spring,  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  in  her  hand,  with  the 
dew  upon  them,  and  perhaps  in  her  eyes  too — I  don't 
object  to  that — that  is  sympathy,  not  the  worship  of 
darkness, — with  what  a  message  from  nature  and  lii»i 
does  she,  looking  death  in  the  face  with  a  smile,  dawn 
upon  the  vision  of  the  invalid  !  She  brings  a  little  health, 
E  little  strength  to  fight,  a  little  hope  to  endure^  actually 
lapt  i;i  the  folds  of  her  gracious  garments.     For  the  £od 


44^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

itself  can  do  more  than  any  medicine,  if  it  be  fed  with 
the  truth  of  life." 

*  But  are  you  not — I  beg  your  pardon  for  interposing 
on  your  eloquence  with  dull  objection,"  said  Percivale — ■ 
•*  are  you  not  begging  all  the  question  1  Is  life  such  an 
affair  of  sunshine  and  gladness  f" 

"  If  life  is  not,  then  I  confess  all  this  show  of  Nature 
is  worse  than  vanity  :  it  is  a  vile  mockery.  Life  is  glad- 
ness :  it  is  the  death  in  it  that  makes  the  misery.  We 
call  life-in-death  life,  and  hence  the  mistake.  If  gladness 
were  not  at  the  root,  whence  its  opposite  sorrow  against 
which  we  arise,  from  which  we  recoil,  with  which  we 
fight  1  We  recognize  it  as  death — the  contrary  of  life. 
There  could  be  no  sorrow  but  for  a  recognition  of  nri- 
mordial  bliss.  This  in  us  that  fights  must  be  life.  It  is 
of  the  nature  of  light,  not  of  darkness.  Darkness  is  nothing 
until  the  light  comes.  This  very  childplay,  as  you  call 
it,  of  nature,  is  her  assertion  of  the  secret  that  life  is  the 
deepest — that  life  shall  conquer  death  :  those  who  believe 
this  must  bear  the  good  news  to  them  that  sit  in  dark- 
ness and  the  shadow  of  death.  Our  Lord  has  conquered 
death — yea,  the  moral  death  that  be  called  the  world— 
and  now  having  sown  the  seed  of  light,  the  harvest  is 
springing  in  human  hearts — is  si)ringing  in  this  dance 
of  radiance — and  will  grow  and  grow  until  the  hearts  of 
the  children  of  the  kingdom  shall  frolic  in  the  sunlight 
of  the  Father's  presence.  Nature  has  God  at  her  heart. 
She  is  but  the  garment  of  the  Invisil^le.  God  vvears  his 
singing  robes  in  a  day  like  this,  and  says  to  his  children, 
•  Be  r.ot  afraid  :  your  brothers  and  sisters  up  there  in 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  44) 

London  are  in  my  hands :  go  and  help  them.  I  am 
with  you.  Bear  to  them  the  message  of  joy.  Tell  them 
to  be  of  good  cheer:  I  have  overcome  tlie  world.  Tell 
them  to  endure  hunger,  and  not  sin  ;  to  endure  passion, 
and  not  yield ;  to  admire,  and  not  desire.  Sorrow  and 
pain  are  serving  my  ends ;  for  by  them  will  I  slay  sin, 
and  save  my  children.' " 

**  I  wish  I  could  believe  as  you  do,  Mr  Walton." 

**  1  wish  you  could.  But  God  will  teach  you  if  you 
tre  willing  to  be  taught." 

**  I  desire  the  truth,  Mr  Walton.** 

**  God  bless  you.     God  is  blessing  you,*'  I  said. 

"Amen,"  returned  Percivale  devoutly,  and  we  strolled 
away  together  in  silence  towards  the  cliffs. 

The  recession  of  the  tide  allowed  us  to  get  far  enough 
away  from  the  face  of  the  rocks  to  see  the  general  effect 
With  the  lisping  of  the  inch-deep  wavelets  at  our  heels 
we  stood  and  regarded  the  worn  yet  defiant,  the  wasted 
and  jagged  yet  reposeful  face  of  the  guardians  of  the 
shore. 

"  Who  could  imagine,  in  weather  like  this,  and  with 
this  baby  of  a  tide  lying  behind  us,  low  at  our  feet,  and 
shallow  as  the  water  a  schoolboy  pours  upon  his  slate  to 
wash  it  withal,  that  those  grand  cliffs  before  us  bear  on 
their  front  the  scars  and  dints  of  centuries,  of  chiliads  of 
ttubborn  resistance,  of  passionate  contest  with  this  saine 
creature  that  is  at  this  moment  unable  to  rock  the 
cradle  of  an  infant?  Look  behind  you,  at  your  feet, 
Mr  Percivale  :  look  before  you  at  the  chasms,  rents, 
caves,  and  hollows,  of  those  rocks." 


44^  THE    SEA.BOARD    PARISH. 

•*  I  wish  you  were  a  painter,  Mr  Walton/'  he  said. 

**I  wish  I  were,"  I  returned.  "At  least,  I  know  I 
slK)uld  rejoice  in  it,  il  it  had  been  given  me  to  be  one. 
But  why  do  you  say  so  now]" 

"  Because  you  have  always  some  individual  predomi- 
nating idea,  which  would  give  interpretation  to  nature 
while  it  gave  harmony,  reality,  and  individuality  to  your 
representation  of  her.'* 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,**  I  answered ;  "  but  I  have 
no  gift  whatever  in  that  direction.  I  have  no  idea  of 
drawing,  or  of  producing  the  effects  of  light  and  shade, 
though  I  think  I  have  a  little  notion  of  colour — perhaps 
about  as  much  as  the  little  London  boy,  who  stopped  a 
friend  of  mine  once  to  ask  the  way  to  the  field  where 
the  buttercups  grew,  had  of  nature.'* 

*'  I  wish  I  could  ask  your  opinion  of  some  of  my  pic- 
tures." 

"  That  I  should  never  presume  to  give.  I  could  only 
tell  you  what  they  made  me  feel,  or  perhaps  only  think. 
Some  day  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  looking  at 
them." 

"  May  I  offer  you  my  address  1  **  he  said,  and  took  a 
card  from  his  pocket-book.  "  It  is  a  poor  place,  but  if 
you  should  happen  to  think  of  me  when  you  are  next 
in  London,  I  shall  be  honoured  by  your  paying  me  a 
visit." 

**  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  I  returned,  taking  his  card. 
— "  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  in  reference  to  the  subject 
we  were  upon  a  few  minutes  ago,  how  little  you  can  do 
without  shadow  in  making  a  oicture  1 " 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  44q 

m 

**  Little  indeed/*  answered  Percivale.  "  In  fact  it 
would  be  no  picture  at  all.'' 

"  I  doubt  if  the  world  would  fare  better  without  its 
fhadovvs." 

**  But  it  would  be  a  poor  satisfaction  with  regard  to  the 
nature  of  God,  to  be  told  that  he  allowed  evil  for  artistic 
purposes." 

"  It  would  indeed,  if  you  regard  the  world  as  a  picture. 
But  if  you  think  of  his  art  as  expended,  not  upon  the 
making  of  a  history  or  a  drama,  but  upon  the  making  of 
an  individual,  a  being,  a  character,  then  I  think  a  great 
part  of  the  difficulty  concerning  the  existence  of  evil 
which  oppresses  you  will  vanish.  So  long  as  a  creature 
has  not  sinned,  sin  is  possible  to  him.  Does  it  seem  in- 
consistent with  the  character  of  God  that  in  order  that 
sin  should  become  impossible  he  should  allow  sin  to 
come  %  that,  in  order  that  his  creatures  should  choose  the 
good  and  refuse  the  evil,  in  order  that  they  might  be- 
come such  with  their  whole  nature  infinitely  enlarged,  as 
to  turn  from  sin  with  a  perfect  repugnance  of  the  will, 
he  should  allow  them  to  fall  %  tlmt,  in  order  that,  from 
being  sweet  childish  children  they  should  become  noble, 
child-like  men  and  women,  he  should  let  them  try  to 
walk  alone  I  Why  should  he  not  allow  the  possible  in 
order  that  it  should  become  impossible  ?  for  possible  it 
would  ever  hav  e  been,  even  in  the  midst  of  all  the  bless- 
edness, until  it  had  been,  and  had  been  thus  destroyed. 
Thus  sin  is  slain,  uprooted.  And  the  war  must  ever  exist 
it  seems  to  me,  where  there  is  creation  still  going  on. 
Uqv^-  could  J  be  content  to  guard  my  children  so  that 


450  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 

- — — t 

they  should  never  have  temptation,  knowing  that  in  all 
probability  they  would  fail  if  at  any  moment  it  should 
cross  their  path  1  Would  the  deepest  communion  of  father 
and  child  ever  be  possible  between  us  I  Evil  would 
ever  seem  to  be  in  the  child,  so  long  as  it  was  possible 
it  should  be  there  developed.  And  if  this  can  be  said 
for  the  existence  of  L">oral  evil,  the  existence  of  all  other 
evil  becomes  a  comparative  trifle ;  nay,  a  positive  good, 
for  by  this  the  other  is  combated." 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  returned  Percivale.  **  I 
will  think  over  what  you  have  said.  These  are  very  diffi- 
cult questions." 

*'  Very.  I  don't  think  argument  is  of  much  use  about 
them,  except  as  it  may  help  to  quiet  a  man's  uneasiness 
a  little,  and  so  give  his  mind  peace  to  think  about  duty. 
For  about  the  doing  of  duty  there  can  be  no  question 
once  it  is  seen.  And  the  doing  of  duty  is  the  shortest — 
in  very  fact,  the  only  way  into  the  light." 

As  we  spoke,  we  had  turned  from  the  cliffs,  and  wan- 
dered back  across  the  salt  streams  to  the  sands  beyond. 
From  the  direction  of  the  house  came  a  little  procession 
of  servants,  with  Walter  at  their  head,  bearing  the  pre- 
parations for  o  ir  dinner- — over  the  gates  of  the  lock, 
down  the  sides  of  the  embankment  of  the  canal,  and 
across  the  sands,  in  the  direction  of  the  children,  who 
were  still  playing  merrily. 

"  Will  you  join  our  early  dinner,  which  is  to  be  out  of 
doors,  as  you  see,  somewhere  hereabout  on  the  sands  t" 
I  said 

**  I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  answered^  "  if  you  will  let 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  45I 

me  be  of  some  use  first.  I  presume  you  mean  to  bring 
four  invalid  out." 

"  Yes ;  and  you  shall  help  me  to  carry  her,  if  you 
will." 

**  That  is  what  I  hoped,"  said  Percivale ;  and  we  went 
together  towards  the  parsonage. 

As  we  approached,  I  saw  W3ainie  sitting  at  the  draw- 
ing-room window ;  but  when  we  entered  the  room,  she 
was  gone.     My  wife  was  there,  however, 

"Where  is  VVynnie?"  I  asked. 

"She  saw  you  coming,"  she  answered,  "and  went  to 
get  Connie  ready  ;  for  I  guessed  Mr  Percivale  had  come 
to  help  you  to  carry  her  out." 

But  I  could  not  help  doubting  there  might  be  more 
than  that  in  Wynnie's  disappearance.  "  What  if  she 
should  have  fallen  in  love  with  him,"  I  thought,  "  and 
he  should  never  say  a  word  on  the  subject?  That  would 
be  dreadful  for  us  all." 

They  had  been  repeatedly  but  not  very  much  together 
of  late,  and  I  was  compelled  to  allow  to  myself  that 
if  they  did  fall  in  love  with  each  other  it  would  be 
very  natural  on  both  sides,  for  there  was  evidently  a  great 
mental  resemblance  between  them,  so  that  they  could 
not  help  sympathizing  with  each  other's  peculiarities. 
And  any  one  could  see  what  a  fine  couple  they  would 
niake. 

Wynnie  was  much  taller  than  Connie — almost  the 
height  of  her  mother.  She  had  a  very  fan:  skin,  and 
brown  hair,  a  broad  forehead,  a  wise,  thoughtful,  often 
troubled  face,  a  mouth  that  seldom  smiled,  but  on  which 


45^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

a  smile  seemed  always  asleep,  and  round  soft  cheeks 
that  dimpled  like  water  when  she  did  smile.  I  have 
described  Percivale  before.  Why  should  not  two  such 
walk  together  along  the  path  to  the  gates  of  the  light  1 
And  yet  I  could  not  help  some  anxiety.  I  did  not  know 
anything  of  his  history.  I  had  no  testimony  concernmg 
him  from  any  one  that  knew  him.  His  past  life  was  a 
blank  to  me ;  his  means  of  livelihood  probably  insuffi- 
cient— certainly,  I  judged,  precarious,  and  his  position  in 
society — but  there  I  checked  myself:  I  had  had  enough 
of  that  kind  of  thing  already.  I  would  not  willingly 
offend  in  that  worldliness  again.  The  God  of  the  whole 
earth  could  not  choose  that  I  should  look  at  such  works 
of  his  hands  after  that  fashion.  And  I  was  his  servant— 
not  Mammon's  or  Belial's. 

All  this  passed  through  my  mind  in  about  three 
turns  of  the  winnowing  fan  of  thought.  Mr  Perci- 
vale had  begun  talking  to  my  wife,  who  took  no  pains 
to  conceal  that  his  presence  was  pleasant  to  her,  and 
I  went  up-stairs,  almost  unconsciously,  to  Connie's 
room. 

When  I  opened  the  door,  forgetting  to  announce  my 
approach  as  I  ought  to  have  done,  I  saw  Wynnie  leaning 
over  Connie,  and  Connie's  arm  round  her  waist.  Wynnie 
started  back,  and  Connie  gave  a  little  cry,  for  the  jerk 
thus  occasioned  had  hurt  her.  Wynnie  had  turned  her 
head  away,  but  turned  it  again  at  Connie's  cry,  and  I 
saw  a  tear  on  her  face. 

"  My  darlings,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said.  "  It  wai 
Tery  stupid  of  me  not  to  knock  at  the  door." 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  453 


Connie  looked  up  at  me  with  large  resting  e/es,  and 
said — 

"  It 's  nothing,  papa.  Wynnie  is  in  one  of  her  gloomy 
moods,  and  didn't  want  you  to  see  her  crying.  She  gave 
me  a  little  pull,  that  was  all.  It  didn't  hurt  me  much, 
only  I  'm  such  a  goose  !  I  'm  in  terror  before  the  pain 
comes.  Look  at  me,"  she  added,  seeing  doubtless,  some 
perturbation  on  my  countenance  :  "  I  'm  all  right  now." 
And  she  smiled  in  my  face  perfectly. 

I  turned  to  Wynnie,  put  my  arm  about  her,  kissed  hei 
cheek,  and  left  the  room.  I  looked  round  at  the  door, 
and  saw  that  Connie  was  following  me  with  her  eyes,  but 
Wynnie's  were  hidden  in  her  handkerchief. 

I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Walter  came  to  announce  that  dinner  was  about  to  be 
served.  The  same  moment  Wynnie  came  to  say  that 
Connie  was  ready.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  or  approach 
to  give  Percivale  any  greeting,  but  went  again  as  soon 
as  she  had  given  her  message.  I  saw  that  he  looked 
first  concerned,  and  then  thoughtful. 

"  Come,  Mr  Percivale,"  I  said,  and  he  followed  me 
up  to  Connie's  room. 

Wynnie  was  not  there,  but  Connie  lay,  looking  lovely, 
all  ready  for  going.  We  lifted  her,  and  carried  her  by 
the  window  out  on  the  down,  for  the  easiest  way,  though 
the  longest,  was  by  the  path  to  the  breakwater,  along  its 
broad  back,  and  down  from  the  end  of  it  upon  the  sands. 
Before  we  reached  the  breakwater,  I  found  ihat  Wynnie 
was  following  behind  us.  We  stopjjed  in  the  middle  ol 
It.  and  set  Connie  down,  as  if  I  warned  to  take  breatl^ 


454  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 


But  I  had  thought  of  something  to  say  to  her,  which  1 
wanted  Wynnie  to  hear  without  its  being  addressed  to  her. 

"  Do  you  see,  Connie,"  I  said,  "  how  far  off  the 
water  is  1" 

"  Yes,  papa ;  it  is  a  long  way  off.  I  wish  I  could  get 
up  and  run  down  to  it/' 

"  You  can  hardly  believe  that  all  between,  all  those 
rocks,  and  all  that  sand,  will  be  covered  before  sunset." 

"  I  know  it  will  be.  But  it  doesn't  look  likely — does 
it,  papa  ?" 

*'  Not  the  least  likely,  my  dear.  Do  you  remember 
that  stormy  night  when  I  came  through  your  room  to  go 
out  for  a  walk  in  the  dark  1" 

"  Remember  it,  papa?  I  cannot  forget  it.  Every  time 
I  hear  the  wind  blowing  when  I  wake  in  the  night,  I 
fancy  you  are  out  in  it,  and  have  to  wake  myself  up  quite 
to  get  rid  of  the  thought.*' 

"Well,  Connie,  look  down  into  the  great  hollow 
there,  with  rocks  and  sand  at  the  bottom  of  it,  stretch- 
ing far  away." 

"  Yes,  papa.** 

"  Now,  look  over  the  side  of  your  litter.  You  see 
those  holes  all  about  between  the  stones." 

"  Yes,  papa.*' 

"Well,  one  of  those  little  holes  saved  my  life  that 
night,  when  the  great  gulf  there  was  full  of  huge 
mounds  of  roaring  water,  which  rushed  across  this 
breakwater  with  force  enough  to  sweep  a  whole  cavalry 
regiment  off  its  back." 

** Papal"  exdaimed  Connie,  turning  palA 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  45J 

Then  first  I  told  her  all  the  story.  And  Wynnie 
Kstened  behind. 

"  Then  I  was  right  in  being  frightened,  papa ! "  cried 
Connie,  bursting  into  tears ;  for  since  her  accident  she 
could  not  well  command  her  feelings. 

**  You  were  right  in  trusting  in  God,  Connie." 

"  But  you  might  have  been  drowned,  papa ! "  she 
sobbed. 

"  Nobody  has  a  right  to  say  that  anything  might  have 
been  other  than  what  has  been.  Before  a  thing  has 
happened,  we  can  say  might  or  might  not ;  but  that  has 
to  do  only  with  our  ignorance.  Of  course  I  am  not 
speaking  of  things  wherein  we  ought  to  exercise  will  and 
choice.  That  is  our  department. — But  this  does  not 
look  like  that  now,  does  it?  Think  what  a  change, — 
from  the  dark  night  and  the  roaring  water,  to  this  fulness 
of  sunlight  and  the  bare  sands,  with  the  water  lisping  on 
their  edge  away  there  in  the  distance.  Now,  I  want 
you  to  think  that  in  life  troubles  will  come  which  look 
as  if  they  would  never  pass  away;  the  night  and  the 
storm  look  as  if  they  would  last  for  ever,  but  the  calm 
and  the  morning  cannot  be  stayed;  the  storm  in  its 
very  nature  is  transient.  The  effort  of  Nature,  as  that 
of  the  human  heart,  ever  is  to  return  to  its  repose,  for 
God  is  Peace." 

"  But  if  you  will  excuse  me,  Mr  Walton,"  said  Perci- 
vale,  **  you  can  hardly  expect  experience  to  be  of  use  to 
any  but  those  who  have  had  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  its 
influences  cannot  be  imparted." 

**  That  depends  on  the  amount  of  faith  in  those  to 


456  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

whom  its  results  are  offered.  Of  course,  as  experience, 
it  can  have  no  weight  with  another ;  for  it  is  no  longer 
experience.  One  remove,  and  it  ceases.  But  faith  in 
the  person  who  has  experienced  can  draw  over  or  derive 
— to  use  an  old  Italian  word — some  of  its  benefits  to 
him  who  has  the  faith.  Experience  may  thus,  in  a 
sense,  be  accumulated,  and  we  may  go  on  to  fresh 
experience  of  our  own.  At  least  I  can  hope  that  the 
experience  of  a  father  may  take  the  form  of  hope  in  the 
minds  of  his  daughters.  Hope  never  hurt  any  one— 
never  yet  interfered  with  duty;  nay,  always  strengthens 
to  the  performance  of  duty,  gives  courage  and  clears  the 
judgment  St  Paul  says  we  are  saved  by  hope.  Hope 
is  the  most  rational  thing  in  the  universe.  Even  the 
ancient  poets,  who  believed  it  was  delusive,  yet  regarded 
it  as  an  antidote  given  by  the  mercy  of  the  gods  against 
some  at  least  of  the  ills  of  life." 

"  But  they  counted  it  delusive.  A  wise  man  cannot 
consent  to  be  deluded." 

"  Assuredly  not.  The  sorest  truth  rather  than  a  false 
hope  I  But  what  is  a  false  hope  1  Only  one  that  ought 
not  to  be  fulfilled.  The  old  poets  could  give  themselves 
little  room  for  hope,  and  less  for  its  fulfilment ;  for  what 
were  the  gods  in  whom  they  believed — I  cannot  say,  in 
whom  they  trusted  1  Gods  who  did  the  best  their  own 
poverty  of  being  was  capable  of  doing  for  men  when 
they  gave  them  the  illusion  of  hope. — But  I  see  they  are 
waiting  for  us  below.  One  thing  I  repeat:  the  wavei 
that  foamed  across  the  spot  where  we  now  stand  are 
gone  away,  have  sunk  and  vanished." 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  457 

**  But  they  will  come  again,  papa,"  faltered  Wynnie. 

**  And  God  will  come  with  them,  my  love,"  I  said,  as 
w«  lifted  the  litter. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  we  were  all  seated  on  the  sand 
around  a  table-cloth  spread  upon  it.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  peace  and  the  light  outside  and  in,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned at  least,  and  I  hope  the  others  too,  that  afternoon. 
The  tide  had  turned,  and  the  waves  were  creeping  up 
over  the  level,  soundless  almost  as  thought ;  but  it  would 
be  time  to  go  home  long  before  they  had  reached  us. 
The  sun  was  in  the  western  half  of  the  sky,  and  now  and 
then  a  breath  of  wind  came  from  the  sea,  with  a  slight 
saw-edge  in  it,  but  not  enough  to  hurt.  Connie  could 
stand  much  more  in  that  way  now.  And  when  I  saw 
how  she  could  move  herself  on  her  couch,  and  thought 
how  much  she  had  improved  since  first  she  was  laid  upon 
it,  hope  for  her  kept  fluttering  joyously  in  my  heart.  I 
could  not  help  fancying  even  that  I  saw  her  move  her 
legs  a  little,  but  I  could  not  be  in  the  least  sure ;  and 
she,  if  she  did  move  them,  was  clearly  unconscious  of  it. 
Charles  and  Harry  were  every  now  and  then  starling  up 
from  their  dinner  and  running  off  with  a  shout,  to  return 
with  apparently  increased  appetite  for  the  rest  of  it :  and 
neither  their  mother  nor  I  cared  to  interfere  with  the  in- 
decorum. Dora  alone  took  it  upon  her  to  rebuke  them. 
Wynnie  was  very  silent,  but  looked  more  cheerful. 
Connie  seemed  full  of  quiet  bliss.  My  wife's  face  was 
a  picture  of  heavenly  repose.  The  old  nurse  was  walk- 
ing about  with  the  baby,  occasionally  with  one  hand 
helping  the  other  servants  to  wait  upon  us.     They,  toOi 


45^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

seemed  to  have  a  share  in  the  gladness  of  the  hour,  and, 
like  Ariel,  did  their  spiriting  gently. 

"  Th\s  is  the  will  of  God,"  I  said,  after  the  things  were 
removed,  and  we  had  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  siLence. 

"What  is  the  will  of  God,  husband ?"  asked  Ethel- 
wyn. 

"  Why,  this,  m}  love,'*  I  answered ;  "  this  living  air 
and  wind,  and  sea,  and  light,  and  land  all  about  us  ;  thi 
consenting  consorting  harmony  of  Nature,  that  mirrors 
a  like  peace  in  our  souls.  The  perfection  of  such  visions, 
the  gathering  of  them  all  in  one  was,  is,  I  should  say,  in 
the  face  of  Christ  Jesus.  You  will  say  that  face  was 
troubled  sometimes.  Yes,  but  with  a  trouble  that  broke 
not  the  music,  but  deepened  the  harmony.  When  he 
wept  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus,  you  do  not  think  it  was 
for  Lazarus  himself,  or  for  his  own  loss  of  him,  that  he 
wept  I  That  could  not  be,  seeing  he  had  the  power  to 
call  him  back  when  he  would.  The  grief  was  for  the 
poor .  troubled  hearts  left  behind,  to  whom  it  was  so 
dreadful  because  they  had  not  faith  enough  in  his  Father, 
the  God  of  life  and  love,  who  was  looking  after  it  all, 
full  of  tenderness  and  grace,  with  whom  Lazarus  was 
present  and  blessed.  It  was  the  aching,  loving  heart  of 
humanity  for  which  he  wept,  that  needed  God  so  awfully, 
and  could  not  yet  trust  in  him.  Their  brother  was  only 
hidden  in  the  skirts  of  their  Father's  garment,  but  they 
could  not  believe  that :  they  said  he  was  dead — lost— 
away — all  gone,  as  the  children  say.  And  it  was  so  sad 
to  think  of  a  whole  world  full  of  the  grief  of  death,  that 
he  could  not  bear  it  without  the  human  tears  to  help  hii 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  459 

heart,  as  they  help  ours.  It  was  for  our  dark  sorrows 
that  he  wept.  But  the  peace  could  be  no  less  plain  on 
the  face  that  saw  God.  Did  ycu  ever  think  of  that 
wonderful  saying :  *  Again  a  httle  while,  and  ye  shall 
see  me,  because  I  go  to  the  Father  I  *  The  heart  of 
man  would  have  joined  the  *  because  I  go  to  the  Father* 
with  the  former  result— the  not  seeing  of  him.  The 
heart  of  man  is  not  able,  without  more  and  more  light, 
to  understand  that  all  vision  is  ip  the  light  of  the  Father 
Because  Jesus  went  to  the  Father,  therefore  the  disciples 
saw  him  tenfold  more.  His  body  no  longer  in  theif 
eyes,  his  very  being,  his  very  self  was  in  their  hearts — 
not  in  their  affections  only — in  their  spirits,  their  heavenly 
consciousness." 

As  I  said  this,  a  certain  hymn,  for  which  I  had  and 
have  an  especial  affection,  came  into  my  mind,  and, 
withojt  prologue  or  introduction,  I  repeated  it  ;-^ 

If  I  Him  but  have, 
If  he  be  but  mine. 
If  my  heart,  hence  to  the  grave, 
Ne'er  forgets  his  love  divine — 
'    Know  I  nought  of  sadness. 

Feel  I  nought  but  worship,  love,  and  gladnes*.  ^ 

If  I  Him  but  have. 

Glad  with  all  I  part ; 

Follow  on  my  pilgrim  staff 

My  Lord  only,  with  true  heart ; 

Leave  them,  nothing  saymg. 

On  broad,  bright,  and  crowded  highways  strayii^ 

If  I  Him  but  have^ 
CUad  I  fall  asleep  | 


460  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Aye  the  flood  that  his  heart  gave 

Strength  within  my  heart  shall  keep ; 

And  with  soft  compelling 

Hake  it  tender,  through  and  through  it  swellings 

If  I  Him  but  have. 

Mine  the^world  I  hail  ! 

Glad  as  cherub  smiling  grave, 

Holding  back  the  virgin's  veil. 

Sunk  and  lost  in  seeing, 

Earthly  fears  have  died  from  all  my  being;. 

Where  I  have  but  Him 

Is  my  Fatherland ; 

And  all  gifts  and  graces  come 

Heritage  into  my  hand : 

Brothers  long  deplored 

I  in  his  disciples  find  restored. 

"What  a  lovely  hymn,  papa!"  exclaimed  Connie, 
She  could  always  speak  more  easily  than  either  her 
mother  or  sister.     "  Who  wrote  it  ? " 

"Friedrich  von  Hardenberg,  known,  where  he  is 
known,  as  Novalis.** 

"  But  he  must  have  written  it  in  German.  Did  you 
ti  an  slate  hV 

"  Yes.  You  will  find,  I  think,  that  I  have  kept  form, 
thought,  and  feeling,  however  I  may  have  failed  in 
making  an  English  poem  of  it" 

"  Oh,  you  dear  papa !  It  is  lovely  I  Is  it  long  since 
you  did  itl" 

"  Years  before  you  were  born,  Connie." 

"  To  think  of  you  having  lived  so  long,  and  being 
one  of  us ! "  she  returned.  "  Was  he  a  Roman  Catholicj 
papal" 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  461 

"  No,  he  was  a  Moravian.  At  least,  his  parents  were. 
I  don't  think  he  belonged  to  any  section  of  the  church 
in  particular." 

**  But  oughtn't  he,  papa?** 

**  Certainly  not,  my  dear,  except  he  saw  good  rea- 
son for  it  But  what  is  the  use  of  asking  such  questions, 
after  a  hymn  like  that  1 " 

**  Oh,  I  didn't  think  anything  bad,  papa,  I  assure  you. 
It  was  only  that  I  wanted  to  know  more  about  him." 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and  I  was  sorry  I  had 
treated  as  significant  what  was  really  not  so.  But  the 
constant  tendency  to  consider  Christianity  as  associated 
of  necessity  with  this  or  that  form  of  it,  instead  of  as 
obedience  to  Christ  simply,  had  grown  more  and  more 
repulsive  to  me  as  I  had  grown  myself,  for  it  always 
seemed  like  an  insult  to  my  brethren  in  Christ ;  hence, 
the  least  hint  of  it  in  my  children  I  was  too  ready  to  be 
down  upon  like  a  most  unchristian  ogre.  I  took  her 
hand  in  mine  and  she  was  comforted,  for  she  saw  in  my 
face  that  I  was  sorry,  and  yet  she  could  see  that  there 
was  reason  at  the  root  of  my  haste. 

"  But,"  said  Wynnie,  who,  I  thought  afterwards,  must 
have  strengthened  herself  to  speak  from  the  instinctive 
desire  to  show  Percivale  how  far  she  was  from  being 
out  of  sympathy  with  what  he  might  suppose  formed  a 
barrier  between  him  and  me — "  But,"  she  said,  "  the 
lovely  feeling  in  that  poem  seems  to  me,  as  in  all  the  rest 
of  such  poems,  to  belong  only  to  the  New  'Testament, 
and  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  world  round  about 
us.     These  things  look  as  \i  they  were  only  tor  draw* 


461  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

ing  and  painting  and  being  glad  in,  not  as  if  they  had 
relations  with  all  those  awful  and  solemn  things.  As 
soon  as  I  try  to  get  the  two  together,  I  lose  both  of 
them/' 

"That  is  because  the  human  mind  must  begin  with 
one  thing  and  grow  to  the  rest.  At  first,  Christianity 
seemed  to  men  to  have  only  to  do  with  their  conscience. 
That  was  the  first  relation,  of  course.  But  even  with 
art  it  was  regarded  as  having  no  relation  except  for  the 
presentment  of  its  history.  Afterwards,  men  forgot  the 
conscience  almost,  in  trying  to  make  Christianity  com- 
j)rehensible  to  the  understanding.  Now,  I  trust,  we  are 
beginning  to  see  that  Christianity  is  everything  or  no 
thing.  Either  the  whole  is  a  lovely  fable  setting  forth 
the  loftiest  longing  of  the  human  soul  after  the  vision  0/ 
the  divine,  or  it  is  such  a  fact  as  is  the  heart  not  only  oi 
theology  so  called,  but  of  history,  politics,  science,  and 
art:  the  treasures  of  the  Godhead  must  be  hidden  in 
him,  and  therefore  by  him  only  can  be  revealed.  This 
will  interpret  all  things,  or  it  has  not  yet  been.  Teachers 
of  men  have  not  taught  this,  because  they  have  not 
seen  it  If  we  do  not  find  him  in  Nature,  we  may  con 
elude  either  that  we  do  not  understand  the  expression 
of  Nature,  or  have  mistaken  ideas  or  poor  feelings  about 
him.  It  is  one  great  business  in  our  life  to  find  the  in- 
terpretation which  will  render  this  harmony  visible.  Till 
we  find  it,  we  have  not  seen  him  to  be  all  in  all.  Re- 
cognizing a  discord  when  they  touched  the  notes  of 
nature  and  society,  the  hermits  forsook  the  instrument 
altogether,  and  conteiued  themselves  with  a  partial  syoa* 


OUR    LAST    SHORE-DINNER.  463 

phony,  lofty,  narrow,  and  weak.  Their  example,  more 
or  less,  has  been  followed  by  almost  all  Christians.  Ex- 
clusion is  so  much  the  easier  way  of  getting  harmony  in 
the  orchestra  than  study,  insight,  and  interpretation, 
that  most  have  adopted  it.  It  is  for  us,  and  all  who 
have  hope  in  the  infinite  God,  to  widen  its  basis  as  we 
may,  to  search  and  find  the  true  tone,  and  right  idea, 
place,  and  combination  of  instruments,  until  to  our  en- 
raptured ear  they  all,  with  one  voice  of  multiform  yet 
harmonious  utterance,  declare  the  glory  of  God  and  oi 
his  Christ." 

"A  grand  idea,"  said  Percivale. 

**  Therefore  likely  to  be  a  true  one,"  I  returned. 
"People  find  it  hard  to  believe  grand  things;  but  why  I 
If  there  be  a  God,  is  it  not  likely  everything  is  grand, 
save  where  the  reflection  of  his  great  thoughts  is  shaken, 
broken,  distorted  by  the  watery  mirrors  of  our  unbeliev- 
ing and  troubled  souls  1  Things  ought  to  be  grand, 
simple,  and  noble.  The  ages  of  eternity  will  go  on 
showing  that  such  they  are  and  ever  have  been.  God 
will  yet  be  victorious  over  our  wretched  unbeliefs." 

I  was  sitting  facing  the  sea,  but  with  ray  eyes  fixed  on 
the  sand,  boring  holes  in  it  with  my  stick,  for  I  could 
talk  better  when  I  did  not  look  my  familiar  faces  in  the 
face.  I  did  not  feel  thus  in  the  pulpit  There  I  sought 
the  faces  of  my  flock  to  assist  me  in  speaking  to  their 
needs.  As  I  drew  to  the  close  of  my  last  monologue, 
a  colder  and  stronger  blast  from  the  sea  blew  in  my  face. 
I  lifted  my  head,  and  saw  that  the  tide  had  crept  up  a 
\ong  way,  and  was  coming  in  fast     A  luminous  fog  had 


464  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


sunk  down  over  the  western  horizon,  and  almost  hidden 
the  sun,  had  obscured  the  half  of  the  sea,  and  destroyed 
all  our  hopes  of  a  sunset.  A  certain  veil  as  of  the  com- 
monplace, like  that  which  so  often  settles  down  over  the 
spirit  of  man  after  a  season  of  vision,  and  glory,  and 
gladness,  had  dropped  over  the  face  of  Nature.  The 
wind  came  in  little  bitter  gusts  across  the  dull  waters.  It 
was  time  to  lift  Connie  and  take  her  home. 

This  was  th^  last  time  w?  ate  together  on  tue  open 
shore 


CHAniiX   JfXXin. 

A    PASTOR  \L   VISIT. 

[HE  next  morning  rose  neither  "  cherchef  t 
in  a  comely  cloud,"  nor  "  roab'd  in  flames 
and  amber  light,"  but  covered  all  in  a  rainy 
mist,  which  the  wind  mingled  with  salt  spray 
com  from  the  tops  of  the  waves.  Every  now  and  then 
che  wind  blew  a  blastful  of  larger  drops  against  the 
window  of  my  study  with  an  angry  clatter  and  clash, 
as  if  daring  me  to  go  out  and  meet  its  ire.  The  earth 
was  very  dreary,  for  there  were  no  shadows  anywhere. 
The  sun  was  hustled  away  by  the  crowding  vapours, 
and  earth,  sea,  and  sky  were  possessed  by  a  gray  spirit 
that  threatened  wrath.  The  breakfast  bell  rang,  and 
I  went  down,  expecting  to  find  my  Wynnie,  who  was 
always  down  first  to  make  the  tea,  standing  at  the  win- 
dow with  a  sad  face,  giving  fit  response  to  the  aspect 
of  nature  without,  her  soul  talking  with  the  gray  spirit : 
I  did  find  her  at  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 

1  Q 


#66  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

restless  tossing  of  the  waters,  but  with  no  despondent 
answer  to  the  trouble  of  nature.  On  the  contrary,  hei 
cheek,  though  neither  rosy  nor  radiant,  looked  luminous, 
and  her  eyes  were  flasliing  out  upon  the  ebb-tide  which 
was  sinking  away  into  the  troubled  ocean  beyond.  Does 
my  girl-reader  expect  me  to  tell  her  next  that  something 
had  happened  1  that  Percivale  had  said  something  to 
her?  or  that  at  least  he  had  just  passed  the  window, 
and  given  her  a  look  which  she  might  interpret  as  she 
pleased?  I  must  disappoint  her.  It  was  nothing  ot 
the  sort.  I  knew  the  heart  and  feeling  of  my  child.  It 
was  only  that  kind  nature  was  in  sympathy  with  her 
mood.  The  girl  was  always  more  peaceful  in  storm 
than  in  sunshine.  I  remembered  that  now.  A  move- 
ment of  life  instantly  began  in  her  when  the  obligation 
of  gladness  had  departed  with  the  light.  Her  own 
being  arose  to  provide  for  its  own  needs.  She  could 
smile  now  when  nature  required  from  her  no  smile  in 
response  to  hers.  And  I  could  not  help  saying  to 
myself :  "  She  must  marry  a  poor  man  some  day.  She 
is  a  creature  of  the  north,  and  not  of  the  south.  The 
hot  sun  of  prosperity  would  wither  her  up.  Give  her 
a  bleak  hill-side,  and  a  glint  or  two  of  sunshine  between 
the  hail-storms,  and  she  will  live  and  grow.  Give  her 
poverty  and  love,  and  life  will  be  interesting  to  her  as 
a  romance.  Give  her  money  and  position,  and  she  will 
grow  dull  and  haughty;  she  will  believe  in  nothing 
that  poet  can  sing  or  architect  build.  She  will,  like 
Cassius,  "  scorn  her  spirit  for  being  moved  to  smile  at 
anything.  ** 


A    PASTORAL    VISIT.  467 

I  had  stood  regarding  her  for  a  moment.  She  turned 
and  saw  me,  and  came  forward  with  her  usual  morning 
greeting. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa :  I  thought  it  was  Walter.* 

•*  I  am  glad  to  see  a  smile  on  your  face,  my  love." 

**  Don't  think  me  very  disagreeable,  papa.  I  know  I 
am  a  trouble  to  you.  But  I  am  a  trouble  to  myself  first. 
I  fear  I  have  a  discontented  mind  and  a  complaining 
temper.  But  I  do  try,  and  I  will  try  hard  to  overcome 
it" 

"It  will  not  get  the  better  of  you,  so  long  as  you  do 
the  duty  of  the  moment  But  I  think,  as  I  told  you 
before,  that  you  are  not  very  well,  and  that  your  indis- 
position is  going  to  do  you  good  by  making  you  think 
about  some  things  you  are  ready  to  think  about,  but 
which  you  might  have  banished  if  you  had  been  in  good 
health  and  spirits.  You  are  feeling,  as  you  never  felt 
before,  that  you  need  a  presence  in  your  soul  of  which 
at  least  you  haven't  enough  yet.  But  I  preached  quite 
enough  to  you  yesterday,  and  I  won't  go  on  the  same 
way  to-day  again.  Only  I  wanted  to  comfort  you. 
Come  and  give  me  my  breakfast." 

"  You  do  comfort  me,  papa,"  she  answered,  approach- 
ing the  table.  "  I  know  I  don't  show  what  I  feel  as  I 
ought,  but  you  do  comfort  me  much.  Don't  you  like  a 
day  like  this,  papa  1 " 

**  I  do,  my  dear.  I  always  did.  And  I  think  you  take 
after  me  in  that,  as  }  ou  do  in  a  good  many  things  besides. 
That  is  how  I  understand  you  so  well." 

"Do  I  really  take  after  you,  papal      Arc  you  i^irj 


468  HE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

that  you  understand  me  so  well  1 "  she  asked,  brightening 
up. 

"  I  know  I  do,"  I  returned,  replying  to  her  last  ques- 
tion. 

"Better  than  1  do  myself?"  she  asked,  with  an  arch 
smile. 

"Considerably,  if  I  mistake  not,**  I  answered. 
How  delightful !      To  think  that  I  am  understood 
even  when  I  don't  understand  myself!  " 

*'  But  even  if  I  am  wrong,  you  are  yet  understood. 
The  blessedness  of  life  is  that  we  can  hide  nothing  from 
God.  If  we  could  hide  anything  from  God,  that  hidden 
thing  would  by  and  by  turn  into  a  terrible  disease.  It  is 
the  sight  of  God  that  keeps  and  makes  things  clean.  But 
9s  we  are  both,  by  mutual  confession,  fond  of  this  kind 
of  weather,  what  do  you  say  to  going  out  with  me  ?  I 
have  to  visit  a  sick  woman." 

"You  don't  mean  Mrs  Coombes,  papa?**  » 

*  No,  my  dear.     I  did  not  hear  she  was  ill.** 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  it  is  nothing  much.  Only  old  nursey 
said  yesterday  she  was  in  bed  with  a  bad  cold,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"  We  '11  call  and  inquire  as  we  pass, — that  is,  if  you 
are  inclined  to  go  with  me." 

**  How  can  you  put  an  if  to  that,  papa  1 " 

"  I  have  just  had  a  message  from  that  cottage  that 
stands  all  alone  on  the  c:orner  of  Mr  Barton's  farm 
— over  the  clifl,  you  know — that  the  woman  is  ill,  and 
would  like  to  see   mc.       So  the  sooner  we  start,  the 

UCttCi/' 


A    PASTORAL    VISIT.  469 


"  I  shall  have  done  my  breakfast  in  five  minutes, 
papa.  Oh!  here's  mamma.  Mamma,  I'm  going  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  rain  with  papa.  You  won't  mind,  will 
you?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  do  you  any  harm,  my  dear. 
That 's  all  I  mind,  you  know.  It  was  only  once  or  twice 
when  you  were  not  well  that  I  objected  to  it.  I  quite 
agree  with  your  papa,  that  only  lazy  people  are  glad  to 
stay  in-doors  when  it  rains." 

"And  it  does  blow  so  delightfully!"  said  Wynnie, 
as  she  left  the  room  to  put  on  her  long  cloak  and  her 
bonnet 

We  called  at  the  sexton's  cottage,  and  found 
him  sitting  gloomily  by  the  low  window,  looking  sea- 
»rard. 

"I  hope  your  wife  is  not  very  poorly,  Coombes,"  I 
said. 

"  No,  sir.  She  be  very  comfortable  in  bed.  Bed  's 
not  a  bad  place  to  be  in  in  such  weather,"  he  answered, 
turning  again  a  dreary  look  towards  the  Atlantic.  "  Poor 
things  I " 

"What  a  passion  for  comfort  you  have,  Coombesl 
How  does  that  come  about,  do  you  think  % " 

**  I  suppose  I  was  made  so,  sir." 

**  To  be  sure  you  were.    God  made  you  so." 

**  Surely,  sir.     Who  else  1 " 

"  Then  I  suppose  he  likes  making  people  comfortable 
If  he  makes  people  like  to  be  comfortable." 

**  It  du  look  likely  enough,  sir." 

^  Then  wh-en  he  takes  it  out  of  your  hands,  you  mustn't 


470  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


think  he  doesn't  look  after  the  people  you  would  make 
comfc  rtable  if  you  could." 

**  I  must  mind  my  work,  you  know,  sir." 

"Yis,  surely.  And  you  mustn't  want  to  take  his  out 
of  his  hands,  and  go  grumbling  as  if  you  would  do  it  so 
much  better  if  he  would  only  let  you  get  your  hand  to 
it." 

**  I  tare  say  you  be  right,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  must  just 
go  and  have  a  look  about  though.  Here's  Agnes. 
She  '11  tell  you  about  mother.'* 

He  took  his  spade  from  the  comer,  and  went  out. 
He  often  brought  his  tools  into  the  cottage.  He  had 
*  4tn'ed  the  handle  of  his  spade  all  over  with  the  name.^i 
of  the  people  he  had  buried. 

"Tell  your  mother,  Agnes,  that  I  will  call  in  the 
evening  and  see  her,  if  she  would  like  to  see  me.  We 
are  going  now  to  see  Mrs  Stokes.  She  is  very  poorly, 
I  hear." 

"  Let  us  go  through  the  churchyard,  papa,**  said 
Wynnie,  "  and  see  what  the  old  man  is  doing." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.     It  is  only  a  few  steps  round." 

"Why  do  you  humour  the  sexton's  foolish  fancy  so 
much,  papal  It  is  such  nonsense!  You  taught  us  it 
was,  surely,  in  your  sermon  about  the  resurrection?" 

"  Most  certainly,  my  dear.  But  it  would  be  of  no 
use  to  try  to  get  it  out  of  his  head  by  any  argument. 
He  has  a  kind  of  craze  in  that  direction.  To  get 
people's  hearts  right  is  of  much  more  importance  than 
convincing  their  judgments.  Right  judgment  will  fol- 
low.    All  such  fixed  ideas  should  be  encountered  from 


A    PASTORAL    VISIT.  47I 

the  deepest  grounds  of  truth,  and  not  from  the  outsides 
of  their  relations.  Coombes  has  to  be  taught  that  God 
cares  for  the  dead  more  than  he  does,  and  therefore  it  is 
unreasonable  for  him  to  be  anxious  about  them." 

When  we  reached  the  churchyard,  we  found  the  old 
man  kneeling  on  a  grave  before  its  headstone.  It  was 
a  very  old  one,  with  a  death's  head  and  cross  bones 
carved  upon  the  top  of  it  in  very  high  relief.  With  his 
pocket-knife,  he  was  removing  the  lumps  of  green  moss 
out  of  the  hollows  of  the  eyes  of  the  carven  skull.  We 
did  not  interrupt  him,  but  walked  past  with  a  nod. 

"You  saw  what  he  was  doing,  Wynnie?  That  re- 
minds me  of  almost  the  only  thing  in  Dante's  grand 
poem  that  troubles  me.  I  cannot  think  of  it  without 
a  renewal  of  my  concern,  though  I  have  no  doubt  he  is 
as  sorry  now  as  I  am  that  ever  he  could  have  written  it 
When,  in  the  Inferno,  he  reaches  the  lowest  region  of 
torture,  which  is  a  solid  lake  of  ice,  he  finds  the  lost 
plunged  in  it  to  various  depths,  some,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  entirely  submerged,  and  visible  only  through 
the  ice,  transparent  as  crystal,  like  the  insects  found  in 
amber.  One  man  with  his  head  only  above  the  ice,  ap- 
peals to  him  as  condemned  to  the  same  punishment, 
to  take  pity  on  him,  and  remove  the  lumps  of  frozen 
tears  from  his  eyes,  that  he  may  weep  a  little  before 
they  freeze  again  and  stop  the  relief  once  more.  Dante 
says  to  him,  *  Tell  me  who  you  are,  and  if  I  do  not 
assist  you,  I  deserve  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  ice 
myself.'  The  man  tells  him  who  he  is,  and  explains  to 
him  one  awful  iiystery  of  these  regions.     Then  he  say^ 


/i7*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


*  Now   stretch   forth    thy  hand,   and   open   my   eyes  f ' 

*  And,'  says  Dante,  *  I  did  not  open  them  for  him  ;  and 
rudeness  to  him  was  courtesy.' " 

**  But  he  promised,  you  said." 

**  He  did,  and  yet  he  did  not  do  it !  Pity  and  truth 
had  abandoned  him  together.  One  would  think  Httle 
of  it,  comparatively,  were  it  not  that  Dante  is  so  full  of 
tenderness  and  grand  religion.  It  is  very  awful,  and 
may  teach  us  many  things." 

"But  what  made  you  think  of  that  now?" 

**  Merely  what  Coombes  was  about.  The  visual  image 
was  all  He  was  scooping  the  green  moss  out  of  the 
eyes  of  the  death's  head  on  the  gravestone." 

By  this  time  we  were  on  the  top  of  the  downs,  and  the 
wind  was  buffeting  us,  and  every  other  minute  assailing 
us  with  a  blast  of  rain.  VVynnie  drew  her  cloak  closer 
about  her,  bent  her  head  towards  the  blast,  and  struggled 
on  bravely  by  my  side.  No  one  who  wants  to  enjoy  a 
walk  in  the  rain  must  carry  an  umbrella  :  it  is  pure  folly. 
When  we  came  to  one  of  the  stone  fences,  we  cowered 
down  by  its  side  for  a  few  moments  to  recover  our 
breath,  and  then  struggled  on  again.  Anything  hke 
conversation  was  out  of  the  question.  At  length  we 
dropped  into  a  hollow,  which  gave  us  a  little  repose. 
Down  below,  the  sea  was  dashing  into  the  mouth  of  the 
glen,  or  coomb,  as  they  call  it  there.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hollow,  the  little  house  to  which  we  were 
going,  stood  up  against  the  gray  sky. 

"  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  I  ought  to  have  brought 
you,  Wynn/e.     It  was  thoughtless  of  me — I  don't  mean 


PASTORAL    VISIT.  473 


for  your  sake,  but  because  your  presence  may  be  em 
b;irrassing  in  a  small  house,  for  probably  the  poor  woman 
may  prefer  seeing  me  alone." 

*'  I  will  go  back,  papa.     I  shan't  mind  it  a  bit.** 
"  No.     You  had  better  come  on.     I  shall  not  be  long 
vvitli  her,  I  daresay.     We  may  find  some  place  tlut  you 
can  wait  in.     Are  you  wet  ? " 

"  Only  my  cloak.     I  am  as  dry  as  a  tortoise  inside.* 
"  Come  along  then.     We  shall  soon  be  there." 
"\\hen  we  reached  the  house,  I  found  that  Wynnie 
wo. .Id  not  be  in  the  way.      I  left  her  seated  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  was  shown  into  the  room  where  Mrs 
Stokes  lay.     I  cannot  say  I  perceived,  but  I  guessed 
somehow,  the  moment  I  saw  her,  that  there  was  some 
thing  upon  her  mind.     She  was  a  hard-featured  woman, 
with  a  cold   troubled   black  eye  that  rolled  restlessly 
about.     She  lay  on  her  back,  moving  her  head  from  side 
to  side.     When  I  entered,  she  only  looked  at  me,  and 
turned  her  eyes  away  towards  the  wall.     I  approached 
the  bedside,  and  seated  myself  by  it     I  always  do  so  at 
once  ;  for  the  patient  feels  more  at  rest  than  if  you  stand 
tali  up  before  her.     I  laid  my  hand  on  hers. 
•'  Are  you  very  ill,  Mrs  Stokes  V  1  said. 
**  Yes,  very,"  she  answered  with  a  groan.    "  It  be  come 
to  the  last  with  me.*' 

"  I  hope  not  indeed,  Mrs  Stokes.  It 's  not  come 
to  the  last  with  us,  so  long  as  we  have  a  Father  in 
heaven." 

"  Ah,  but  it  be  with  me.  He  can't  take  any  notice  of 
the  like  of  me."* 


474  1HE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  But  indeed  he  does,  whether  you  think  it  or  not 
He  takes  notice  of  every  thought  we  think,  and  every 
deed  we  do,  and  every  sin  we  commit." 

I  said  the  last  words  with  emphasis,  for  I  suspected 
something  more  than  usual  upon  her  conscience.  She 
gave  another  groan,  but  made  no  reply.  I  therefore 
went  on. 

"Our  Father  in  heaven  is  not  like  some  fathers  on 
earth,  who  so  long  as  their  children  don't  bother  them, 
let  them  do  anything  they  like.  He  will  not  have  them 
do  what  is  wrong.  He  loves  them  too  much  for 
that." 

"  He  won't  look  at  me,"  she  said,  half  murmunng, 
half  sighing  it  out,  so  that  I  could  hardly  hear  what  she 
said. 

"It  is  because  he  is  looking  at  you  that  you  are 
feeling  uncomfortable,"  I  answered.  "He  wants  you 
to  confess  your  sins.  I  don't  mean  to  me,  but  to  him- 
self; though  if  you  would  Hke  to  tell  me  anything, 
and  I  can  help  you,  I  shall  be  very  glad.  Yoii  know 
Jesus  Christ  came  to  save  us  from  our  sins ;  and 
that 's  why  we  call  him  our  Saviour.  But  he  can't 
save  us  from  our  sins  if  we  won't  confess  that  we  have 
any." 

**  I  'm  sure  I  never  said  but  what  I  be  a  great  sinner, 
as  well  as  other  people." 

*  You  don't  suppose  that 's  confessing  your  sins?"  I 
said.  "  I  once  knew  a  woman  of  veiy  bad  character, 
who  allowed  to  me  she  was  a  great  sinner ;  but  when  I 
laid,  *  Yes :   yoa  have  done  so  and  so,'  she  would  not 


A    PASTORAL    VISIT.  475 

allow  one  of  those  deeds  to  be  worthy  of  being  reckoned 
amongst  her  sins.  When  I  asked  her  what  great  sins  she 
had  been  guilty  of,  then,  seeing  these  counted  for  nothing, 
I  could  get  no  more  out  of  her  than  that  she  was  a 
great  sinner,  like  other  people,  as  you  have  just  been 
saying." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  be  thinking  I  ha'  done  anything  of 
that  sort  I "  she  said,  with  wakening  energy.  "  No  man 
or  woman  dare  say  I  've  done  anything  to  be  ashamed 
of." 

"  Then  you  've  committed  no  sins,**  I  returned.  •*  But 
v/hy  did  you  send  for  me  f  You  must  have  something  to 
say  to  me." 

"  I  never  did  send  for  you.  It  must  ha'  been  my  hus- 
band." 

"  Ah,  then,  I  'm  afraid  I  've  no  business  here !"  I  re- 
turned, rising.     "  I  thought  you  had  sent  for  me." 

She  returned  no  answer.  I  hoped  that  by  retiring  I 
should  set  her  thinking,  and  make  her  more  willing  to 
listen  the  next  time  I  came.  I  think  clergymen  may  do 
much  harm  by  insisting  when  people  are  in  a  bad  mood, 
as  if  they  had  everyihmg  to  do,  and  the  Spirit  of  God 
nothing  at  all.  I  bade  her  good-day,  hoped  she  would 
be  better  soon,  and  returned  to  Wynnie. 

As  we  walked  home  together,  I  said — 

"  Wynnie,  I  was  right.  It  would  not  have  done  ai  all 
to  take  you  into  the  sick  room.  Mrs  Stokes  haa  not 
sent  for  me  herself,  and  rather  resented  my  appearance. 
But  I  tliink  she  will  send  for  me  before  many  days  arc 
over." 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


THE   ART   OF    NATURE. 


E  had  a  week  of  hazy  weather  after  this.     1 

spent  it  chiefly  in  my  study  and  in  Connie's 

room.     A  world  of  mist  hung  over  the  sea. 

It  refused   to   hold  any  communion   with 

mortals.     As  if  ill-tempered  or  unhappy,  it  folded  itself 

in  its  mantle,  and  lay  still. 

What  was  it  thinking  about  1  All  Nature  is  so  full  ot 
meaning,  that  we  cannot  help  fancying  sometimes  that 
she  knows  her  own  meanings.  She  is  busy  with  every 
human  mood  in  turn,  sometimes  with  ten  of  them  at 
once,  picturing  our  own  inner  world  before  us,  that  we 
may  see,  understand,  develope,  reform  it. 

I  was  turning  over  some  such  thought  in  my  mind 
one  morning,  when  Dora  knocked  at  the  door,  saying 
that  Mr  Percivale  had  called,  and  that  mamma  was 
busy,  and  would  I  mind  if  she  brought  iiim  up  to  Uie 
ftudy. 


THE    ART    OF    NATURE.  47J 

•*  Not  in  the  least,  my  dear,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  see  him." 

"  Not  much  of  weather  for  your  sacred  craft,  Perci* 
vale,"  I  said,  as  he  entered.  "  I  suppose  if  you  weie 
asked  to  make  a  sketch  to-day,  it  would  be  much  the 
same  as  if  a  stupid  woman  were  to  ask  you  to  take  her 
portrait." 

Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Percivale. 

*  Surely  the  human  face  is  more  than  nature  • 

*  Nature  is  never  stupid." 

*  The  woman  might  be  pretty." 

*  Nature  is  full  of  beauty  in  her  worst  moods  ,  while 
the  prettier  such  a  woman,  the  more  stupid  she  would 
look,  and  the  more  irksome  you  would  feel  the  task,  for 
you  could  not  help  making  claims  upon  her  which  you 
would  never  think  of  making  upon  Nature.'* 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right  Such  stupidity  has  a  good 
deal  to  do  with  moral  causes.  You  do  not  ever  feel  that 
Nature  is  to  blame." 

"  Nature  is  never  ugly.  She  may  be  dull,  sorrov/.f^ul, 
troubled ;  she  may  be  lost  in  tears  and  pallor,  but  she 
cannot  be  ugly.  It  is  only  when  you  rise  into  animal 
nature  that  you  find  ugliness." 

**  True  in  the  main  only ;  for  no  lines  of  absolute 
division  can  be  drawn  in  nature  :  I  have  seen  ugly 
flowers." 

"  1  grant  it.  But  they  are  exceptional  And  none  of 
them  are  without  beauty." 

'*  Surely  not.  The  ugliest  soul  even  is  not  without 
•ome  beauty.     But  I  grant  you  that  the  higher  you  rise 


47^5  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  more  is  ugliness  possible,  just  because  the  greatei 
beauty  is  possible.  There  is  no  ugliness  to  equal  in  ita 
repulsiveness  the  ugliness  of  a  beautiful  face." 

A  pause  followed. 

**  I  presume,"  I  said,  "  you  are  thinking  of  returning 
to  London  now.  There  seems  so  little  to  be  gained  by 
remaining  here.  When  this  weather  begins  to  show 
itself  I  could  wish  myself  in  my  own  parish.  But  I  am 
sure  the  change,  even  through  the  winter,  will  be  good 
for  my  daughter.** 

**  I  must  be  going  soon,*'  he  answered.  "  But  it  would 
be  too  bad  to  take  offence  at  the  old  lady's  first  touch  of 
temper.  I  mean  to  wait  and  see  whether  we  shall  not 
have  a  little  bit  of  St  Martin's  summer,  as  Shakspere  calls 
it ;  after  which,  hail  London,  queen  of  smoke  and  "— — 

"  And  what  V*  1  asked,  seeing  he  hesitated. 

•*  *  And  soap/  I  was  fancying  you  would  say.  For  you 
never  will  allow  the  worst  of  things,  Mr  Walton.*' 

"  No,  surely  I  will  not  For  one  thing,  the  worst  has 
never  been  seen  by  anybody  yet  We  have  no  experi- 
ence to  justify  it." 

We  were  chatting  in  this  loose  manner,  when  Walter 
came  to  the  door  to  tell  me  that  a  messenger  had  come 
from  Mrs  Stokes. 

I  went  down  to  see  him,  and  found  her  husband. 

"  My  wife  be  very  bad,  sir/'  he  said.  **  I  wish  yott 
could  come  and  see  her.** 

"  Does  she  want  to  see  me?**  I  asked. 

"She's  been  more  uncomfortable  than  ever  since  yott 
was  there  last,"  he  said. 


THE    ART    OF    NATURE.  479 


*^  But,"  I  repeated,  "has  she  said  she  would  like  to 
see  me  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  it,  sir,"  answered  the  man. 

"  Then  it  is  you  who  want  me  to  see  her  I  " 

*'  Yes,  sir.  But  I  be  sure  she  do  want  to  see  you.  1 
know  her  way,  you  see,  sir.  She  never  would  say  she 
wanted  anything  in  her  life.  She  would  always  leave 
you  to  find  it  out.     So  I  got  sharp  at  that,  sir." 

"  And  then,  would  she  allow  she  had  wanted  it  when 
you  got  it  her  f " 

"  No,  never,  sir.  She  be  peculiar — my  wife.  She 
a' ways  be." 

*'Does  she  know  that  you  have  come  to  ask  me 

DOW?" 

**  No,  sir." 

**  Have  you  courage  to  tell  her  f " 

The  man  hesitated. 

*'  If  you  haven't  courage  to  tell  her,**  I  resumed,  "  I 
fiAV  nothing  more  to  say.  I  can't  go ;  or,  rather,  I  will 
not  fo." 

*  i  will  tell  her,  sir." 

*  Then  you  will  tell  her  that  I  refused  to  come  until 
she  sent  for  me  herself." 

"  Ben't  that  rather  hard  on  a  dying  woman,  sir  f '* 

**  I  have  my  reasons.     Except  she  send  for  me  herself, 

the  moment  I  go  she  will  take  refuge  in  the  fact  that  she 

did  not  send  for  me.     I  know  your  wife's  peculiarity  too, 

Mr  Stokes." 
"  Well,  I  will  tell  her,  sir.     It 's  time  to  speak  ray  own 

mind." 


480  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH 

"I  think  so.  It  was  time  long  ago.  When  she  sends 
for  me,  if  it  be  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  shall  be  with 
her  at  once." 

He  left  me  and  I  returned  to  Percivale. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  before  you  came,"  I  said,  "  about 
the  relation  of  Nature  to  our  inner  world.  You  know  I 
am  quite  ignorant  of  your  art,  but  I  often  think  about  the 
truths  that  lie  at  the  root  of  it." 

"I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  he  said,  "for  talking 
about  these  things.  I  assure  you  it  is  of  more  service 
to  me  than  any  professional  talk.  I  always  think 
the  professions  should  not  herd  together  so  much 
as  they  do;  they  want  to  be  shone  upon  from  other 
quarters." 

"  I  believe  we  have  all  to  help  each  other,  Percivale, 
The  sun  himself  could  give  us  no  light  that  would  be 
of  any  service  to  us  but  for  the  reflective  power  of  the 
airy  particles  through  which  he  shines.  But  anything  I 
know  I  have  found  out  merely  by  foraging  for  my  own 
necessities.** 

"  That  is  just  what  makes  the  result  valuable,'*  he  re- 
plied.    "  Tell  me  what  you  were  thinking." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  I  answered,  "  how  every  one  likes 
to  see  his  own  thoughts  set  outside  of  him,  that  he 
may  contemplate  them  objectively^  as  the  philosophers 
call  it  He  likes  to  see  the  other  side  of  them,  as  it 
were.** 

"Yes,  that  is,  of  course,  true;  else  I  suppose,  there 
would  be  no  art  at  all.** 

*•  Surely.     But  that  is  not  the  aspect  in  which  I  was 


THE    ART    OF    NATURE.  481 


considering  the  question.  Those  who  can  so  set  them 
forth  are  artists ;  and  however  they  may  fail  of  effecting 
iuch  a  representation  of  their  ideas  as  will  satisfy  them- 
selves, they  yet  experience  satisfaction  in  the  measure  in 
which  they  have  succeeded.  But  there  are  many  more 
men  who  cannot  yet  utter  their  ideas  in  any  form.  Mind, 
I  do  expect  that,  if  they  will  only  be  good,  they  shall  have 
this  power  some  day ;  for  I  do  think  that  many  things 
we  call  differences  in  kind,  may  in  God's  grand  scale 
prove  to  be  only  differences  in  degree.  And  indeed  the 
artist — by  artist,  I  mean,  of  course,  architect,  musician, 
painter,  poet,  sculptor — in  many  things  requires  it  just 
as  much  as  the  most  helpless  and  dumb  of  his  brethren, 
seeing  in  proportion  to  the  things  that  he  can  do,  he  is 
aware  of  the  things  he  cannot  do,  the  thoughts  he  cannot 
express.  Hence  arises  the  enthusiasm  with  which  people 
hail  the  work  of  an  artist ;  they  rejoice,  namely,  in  seeing 
their  own  thoughts,  or  feelings,  or  something  like  them, 
expressed ;  and  hence  it  comes  that  of  those  who  have 
money,  some  hang  their  walls  with  pictures  of  their  own 
choice,  others  " 

*'I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Percivale,  interrupting; 
*  but  most  people,  I  fear,  hang  their  walls  with  pictures 
of  other  people's  choice,  for  they  don't  buy  them  at  all 
till  the  artist  has  got  a  name." 

"  That  is  true.  And  yet  there  is  a  shadow  of  choice 
*ven  there ;  for  they  won't  at  least  buy  what  they  dis- 
like. And  again  the  growth  in  popularity  may  be  only 
what  first  attracted  their  attention— not  det-^cmined  theif 
choice." 

f  ■ 


482  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

*'  Cut  there  are  others  who  only  buy  them  for  theif 
value  in  the  n>arket." 

"  *  Of  such  is  not  the  talk,*  as  the  Germans  would  say. 
In  as  far  as  your  description  applies,  such  are  only 
tradesmen,  and  have  no  claim  to  be  considered  now.** 

"Then  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting.  I  am 
punished  more  than  I  deserve,  if  you  have  lost  your 
thread." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have.  Let  me  see.  Yes.  I  was 
saying  that  people  hang  their  walls  with  pictures  of  their 
choice  ;  or  provide  music,  &c.,  of  their  choice.  Let  me 
keep  to  the  pictures  :  their  choice,  consciously  or  un 
consciously,  is  determined  by  some  expression  that  these 
pictures  give  to  what  is  in  themselves — the  buyers,  I 
mean.  They  like  to  see  their  own  feelings  outside  of 
themselves." 

"  Is  there  not  another  possible  motive — that  the  pic- 
tures teach  them  something?" 

**  That,  I  venture  to  think,  shows  a  higher  moral  con- 
dition than  the  other,  but  still  partakes  of  the  other ;  for 
it  is  only  what  is  in  us  already  that  makes  us  able  to  lay 
hold  of  a  lesson.  It  is  there  in  the  germ,  else  nothing 
from  without  would  wake  it  up." 

"  1  do  not  quite  see  what  all  this  has  to  do  with 
Nature  and  her  influences." 

"  One  step  more,  and  I  shall  arrive  at  it  You  will 
admit  that  the  pictures  and  objects  of  art  of  all  kinds, 
with  which  a  man  adorns  the  house  he  has  chosen  01 
built  to  live  in,  have  thenceforward  not  a  little  to  do 
with  the  education  of  his  tastes  and   feelings.      Even 


THE    ART    OF    NATURE.  483 

when  he  is  uot  aware  of  it,  they  are  working  upon  him, 
for  good,  if  he  has  chosen  what  is  good,  which  alone 
shall  be  our  supposition." 

"  Certainly ;  that  is  clear.*' 

"  Now  I  come  to  it.  God,  knowing  our  needs,  built 
our  house  for  our  needs — not  as  one  man  may  build  for 
another,  but  as  no  man  can  build  for  himself.  For  our 
comfort,  education,  training,  he  has  i  ut  into  form  for 
lis  all  the  otherwise  hidden  thoughts  and  feelings  of  our 
heait  Even  when  he  speaks  of  the  hidden  things  of 
the  Spirit  of  God,  he  uses  the  forms  or  pictures  ot 
Nature.  The  world  is,  as  it  were,  the  human,  unseen 
world  turned  inside  out  that  we  may  see  it.  On  the 
walls  of  the  house  that  he  has  built  for  us,  God  has  hung 
up  the  pictures — ever  living,  ever  changing  pictures — of 
all  that  passes  in  our  souls.  Form  and  colour  and 
motion  are  there, — ever  modelling,  ever  renewing,  never 
wearying.  Without  this  living  portraiture  from  within, 
we  should  have  no  word  to  utter  that  should  represent 
a  single  act  of  the  inner  world.  Metaphysics  could  have 
no  existence,  not  to  speak  of  poetry,  not  to  speak  of 
the  commonest  language  of  affection.  But  all  is  done 
in  such  spiritual  suggestion,  portrait  and  definition  are 
so  avoided,  the  whole  is  in  such  fluent  evanescence,  th»t 
the  producing  mind  is  only  aided,  never  overwhelmed. 
It  never  amounts  to  representation.  It  affords  but  the 
material  which  the  thinking,  feeling  soul  can  use,  in- 
terpret, and  apply  for  its  own  purposes  of  speech.  It  is, 
as  it  were,  the  forms  of  thought  cast  into  a  lovely  chaos 
by  the  inferior  laws  of  matter,  thence  to  be  withdrawn 


484  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

by  what  we  call  the  creative  genius  that  God  has  given 
to  men,  and  moulded,  and  modelled,  and  arranged,  and 
built  up  to  its  own  shapes  and  its  own  purposes." 

"  Then  I  presume  you  would  say  that  no  mere  trail' 
script,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  of  nature,  is  the  worthy 
work  of  an  artist.** 

"  It  is  an  impossibility  to  make  a  mere  transcript. 
No  man  can  help  seeing  nature  as  he  is  himself.  Foi 
she  has  all  in  her.  But  if  he  sees  no  meaning  in  especial 
that  he  wants  to  give,  his  portrait  of  her  will  represent 
only  her  dead  face,  not  her  living,  impassioned  coun 
tenance." 

"  Then  artists  ought  to  interpret  nature  1** 

"  Indubitably.  But  that  will  only  be  to  interpret 
themselves — something  of  humanity  that  is  theirs,  whether 
they  have  discovered  it  already  or  not.  If  to  this  they 
can  add  some  teaching  for  humanity,  then  indeed  they 
may  claim  to  belong  to  the  higher  order  of  art,  howevei 
imperfect  they  may  be  in  their  powers  of  re:presenting — 
however  lowly,  therefore,  their  position  may  be  in  that 
order.' 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

IHK  SOKE   ;?K)T. 

■fi  wtni  Ob  taiii^g  (of  some  tim«.  Indeed  wf 
talkcf^  so  lon3  i\At  the  dinner-hour  was  ap- 
proaching,  when  one  of  the  maids  came  witli 
the  message  that  Mi  Stokes  had  called  again, 
wishing  to  see  me.  I  could  tiolt  help  smiling  inwardly 
at  the  news.  I  went  down  »t  once,  and  found  bim 
smiUng  too. 

**  My  wife  do  send  me  for  you  thij  .Sine,  sir,"  he  saiA 
**  Between  you  and  me,  I  cannot  help  thinking  she  havt 
something  on  her  mind  she  wants  to  tc)I  you,  sir." 

"Why  shouldn't  she  tell  you,  Mr  Stokes  1  That 
would  be  most  natural  And  then  if  you  wanted  any 
help  about  it,  why,  of  course  here  I  am.'* 

"She  don't  think  well  enough  of  my  judgncem  (ox 
that,  sir.  And  I  daresay  she  be  quite  right.  She  al'^ays 
do  make  me  give  in  before  she  have  done  talking,  Bui 
she  have  been  a  right  good  wife  to  me,  sir." 


486  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  a  better  if  you  hadn't 
given  in  quite  so  much.  It  is  very  wrong  to  give  in 
when  you  think  you  are  right** 

**  But  I  never  be  sure  of  it  when  she  talk  to  me 
awhile/* 

*'  Ah,  then,  I  have  nothing  to  say,  except  that  you 
ought  to  have  been  surer — sometimes;  I  don*t  say 
always^ 

^'  But  she  do  want  you  very  bad  now,  sir.  I  don't 
think  she  '11  behave  to  you  as  she  did  before.  Do  come, 
sir." 

"Of  course  I  will — instantly.'* 

I  returned  to  the  study,  and  asked  Percivale  if  he 
would  like  to  go  with  me.  •  He  looked,  I  thought,  as 
if  he  would  rather  not.  I  saw  that  it  was  hardly  kind 
to  ask  him. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  better  not,**  I  said,  "  for  I  do  not 
know  how  long  I  may  have  to  be  with  the  poor  woman. 
Vou  had  better  wait  here  and  take  my  place  at  the 
dinner-table.  I  promise  not  to  depose  you  if  I  should 
return  before  the  meal  is  over." 

He  thanked  me  very  heartily.  I  showed  him  into  the 
drawing-room,  told  my  wife  where  I  was  going,  and  not 
to  wait  dinner  for  me — I  would  take  my  chance — ^and 
joined  Mr  Stokes. 

•'  you  have  no  idea,  then,"  I  said,  after  we  had 
gone  about  half-way,  "  what  makes  your  wife  so  un« 
easy '( " 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered.  "  Except  it  be,"  he 
resumed    "  that  she  was  too  hard,  as  I  thouglit,  upon 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  487 


our  Mary,  when  she  wanted  to  marry  beneath  her,  as 
wife  thought" 

"  How  beneath  her  I  Who  wsls  it  she  wanted  to 
marry  1 " 

"She  did  marry  him,  sir.  She  has  a  bit  of  her 
mother's  temper,  you  see,  and  she  would  take  her  own 
way." 

"Ah  !  there's  a  lesson  to  mothers,  is  it  not  1  If  they 
want  to  have  their  own  way,  they  mustn't  give  their  own 
temper  to  their  daughters." 

"  But  how  are  they  to  help  it,  sir  1 " 

**  Ah  1  how  indeed  1  But  what  is  your  daughter's  hus- 
band?" 

"  A  labourer,  sir.  He  works  on  a  farm  out  by  Carp- 
stone." 

**  But  you  have  worked  on  Mr  Barton's  farm  for  many 
years,  if  I  don't  mistake." 

"  I  have,  sir.  But  I  am  a  sort  of  a  foreman  now,  you 
see." 

"  But  you  weren't  so  always,  and  your  son-in-law, 
whether  he  work  his  way  up  or  not,  is,  I  presume,  much 
where  you  were  when  you  married  Mrs  Stokes." 

"True  as  you  say,  sir.  And  it's  not  me  that  has 
anything  to  say  about  it  I  never  gave  the  man  a  nay. 
But  you  see  my  wife,  she  always  do  be  wanting  to  get 
her  head  up  in  the  world,  and  since  she  took  to  the 
shop-keeping  " 

"The  shop-keeping  !"  I  said,  with  some  surprise.  "I 
didn't  know  that" 

•*  Well,  you  see,  sir,  it 's  only  for  a  quarter,  or  so,  ol 


488  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


the  year.  You  know  it  *s  a  favourite  walk  for  the  folks 
as  comes  here  for  the  bathing — past  our  house,  to  see 
the  great  cave  down  below.  And  my  wife  she  got  a  bit 
of  a  sign  put  up,  and  put  a  few  ginger-beer  bottles  in 
the  window,  and  '* 

*'  A  bad  place  for  the  ginger-beer,"  I  said. 

**  They  were  only  empty  ones  with  corks  and  strings, 
you  know,  sir.  My  wife  she  know  better  than  put  the 
ginger-beer  its  own  self  in  the  sun.  But  I  do  think  she 
carry  her  head  higher  after  that,  and  a  farm- labourer, 
Fws  they  call  them,  was  none  good  enough  for  her 
daughter," 

"  And  hasn't  she  been  kind  to  her  since  she  married, 
tlienl" 

"  She  *s  never  done  her  no  harm,  sir." 

"  But  she  hasn't  gone  to  see  her  very  often,  or  asked 
her  tc^  come  and  see  you  very  often,  I  suppose." 

"  There  *s  ne'er  a  one  o'  them  crossed  the  door  of  the 
other,"  ho  answered,  with  some  evident  feeling  of  his 
own  in  the  matter. 

"  Ah !  But  you  don't  approve  of  that  yourself, 
Stokes?" 

"  Approve  of  it  ?  No,  sir.  I  be  a  farm-labourer  once 
myself.  And  so  I  do  want  to  see  my  daughter  now  and 
then.  But  she  take  after  her  mother,  she  do.  I  don't 
know  which  of  the  two  it  is  as  does  it,  but  there 's  no 
coming  and  going  between  Carpstone  and  this." 

We  were  approaching  the  house.  I  told  Stokes  he 
had  better  let  her  know  I  was  there ;  for  that,  if  she 
had  c  hanged  her  mind,  it  was  not  too  late  for  me  to  ga 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  4S) 


home  again  without  disturbing  her.  He  came  back  say- 
ing she  was  still  very  anxious  to  see  me. 

"  Well,  Mrs  Stokes,  how  do  you  feel  to-day  f'  I  asked, 
by  way  of  opening  the  conversation.  **  I  don't  think 
you  look  much  worse." 

"I  be  much  worse,  sir.  You  don't  know  what  I 
suffer,  or  you  wouldn't  make  so  little  of  it.  I  be  very 
bad." 

"  I  know  you  are  very  ill,  but  I  hope  you  are  not  too 
ill  to  tell  me  why  you  are  so  anxious  to  see  me.  You 
have  got  something  to  tell  me,  I  suppose." 

With  pale  and  death-like  countenance,  she  appeared 
to  be  fighting  more  with  herself  than  with  the  disease 
which  yet  had  nearly  overcome  her.  The  drops  stood 
upon  her  forehead,  and  she  did  not  speak.  Wishing  to 
help  her,  if  I  might,  I  said — 

"  Was  it  about  your  daughter  you  wanted  to  speak  to 
me?" 

**  No,"  she  muttered.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say  about 
my  daughter.  She  was  my  own.  I  could  do  as  I  pleased 
with  her." 

1  thought  with  myself,  we  must  have  a  word  about 
that  by  and  by,  but  meantime  she  must  relieve  her  heart 
of  the  one  thing  whose  pressure  she  feels. 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  you  want  to  tell  me  about  some- 
thing that  was  not  your  own  ?" 

**  Who  said  I  ever  took  what  was  not  my  own  ?"  she 
fetumed  fiercely.  "  Did  Stokes  dare  to  say  I  took  any- 
thing that  wasn't  my  own?" 

"  No  one  has  said  anything  of  the  sort.     Only  I  can 


490  THE    SEABOAKD    PARISH. 

not  help  thinking,  from  your  own  words  and  from  your 
own  behaviour,  that  that  must  be  the  cause  of  your 
misery." 

"  It  is  very  hard  that  the  parson  should  think  such 
tilings,"  she  muttered  again. 

"  My  poor  woman,"  I  said,  "  you  sent  for  me  because 
you  had  something  to  confess  to  me.  I  want  to  help 
you,  if  I  can.  But  you  are  too  proud  to  confess  it  yet, 
I  see.  There  is  no  use  in  my  staying  here.  It  only 
does  you  harm.  So  I  will  bid  you  good  morning.  It 
you  cannot  confess  to  me,  confess  to  God.'* 

"  God  knows  it,  1  suppose,  without  that* 

**  Yes.  But  that  does  not  make  it  less  necessary  for 
you  to  confess  it  How  is  he  to  forgive  you,  if  you 
won't  allow  that  you  have  done  wrong]" 

"  It  be  not  so  easy  that  as  you  think.  How  would  you 
like  to  say  you  had  took  something  that  wasn't  your  own  V 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  like  it,  certainly ;  but  if  I  had  it 
to  do,  I  think  I  should  make  haste  and  do  it,  and  so  get 
rid  of  it." 

"  But  that's  the  worst  of  it ;  I  can't  get  rid  of  it" 

"  But,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  hers,  and  trying  to- 
speak  as  kindly  as  I  could,  although  her  whole  behaviour 
would  have  been  exceedingly  repulsive  but  for  her  evi- 
dently great  suffering,  "  you  have  now  all  but  confessed 
taking  something  that  did  not  belong  to  you.  Why 
don't  you  summon  courage  and  tell  me  all  about  it! 
I  want  to  help  yo?i  out  of  the  trouble  as  easily  as  ever 
I  can  ;  but  I  can't  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  you  've  got 
thai  isn't  yours." 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  491 


•  I  haven't  got  anything,"  she  muttered. 

*'  You  had  something  then,  whatever  may  have  become 
of  it  now." 

She  was  again  silent 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it  ?* 

"  Nothing." 

I  rose  and  took  up  my  hat  She  stretched  out  hcf 
hand,  as  if  to  lay  hold  of  me,  with  a  cry. 

"  Stop,  stop.  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it  I  lost  it  again. 
That's  the  wor^  of  it     I  got  no  good  of  it** 

"What  was  it r* 

"  A  sovereign,"  she  said,  with  a  groan.  "  And  now 
I  'm  a  thief,  I  suppose." 

"  No  more  a  thief  than  )'0u  were  before.  Rather  less, 
I  hope.  But  do  you  think  it  would  have  been  any  better 
for  you  if  you  hadn't  lost  it,  and  had  got  some  good  of 
it,  as  you  say?" 

She  was  silent  yet  again. 

"  If  you  hadn't  lost  it  you  would  most  likely  have  been 
t  great  deal  worse  for  it  than  you  are — a  more  wicked 
woman  altogether." 

"  I  'm  not  a  wicked  woman.* 

"  It  is  wicked  to  steal,  is  it  noti* 

«  I  didn't  steal  it* 

**  Ho  V  did  you  come  by  it,  then  I* 

«I  found  it." 

•*  Did  you  trj'  to  find  out  the  owner  t** 

**  No.     I  knew  whose  it  was." 

•*  Then  it  was  very  wicked  not  to  return  it  And,  I 
lay  again,  that  if  you  had  not  lost  the  sovereign  yon 


492  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

would  have  been  most  likely  a  more  wicked  woman  than 
you  are." 

"  It  was  very  hard  to  lose  it.  I  could  have  given  it 
back.  And  then  I  wouldn't  have  lost  my  character  as  I 
have  done  this  day." 

"  Yes,  you  could ;  but  I  doubt  if  you  would." 

«  I  would." 

•*  Now,  if  you  had  it,  you  are  sure  you  would  give  it 
backr 

"  Yes,  that  I  would,**  she  said,  looking  me  so  full  in 
the  face  that  I  was  sure  she  meant  it. 

"  How  would  you  give  it  back  ?  Would  you  get  your 
husband  to  take  itT* 

"  No  !  I  wouldn't  trust  him." 

"With  the  story  you  mean?  You  do  not  wish  to 
Imply  that  he  would  not  restore  it." 

**  I  don't  mean  that.     He  would  do  what  I  told  him." 

**  How  would  you  return  it,  then  V* 

**  I  should  make  a  parcel  of  it,  and  send  it.** 

•*  Without  saying  anything  about  it  V* 

**  Yes.  Where 's  the  good  1  The  man  would  have  his 
own." 

"  No,  he  would  not  He  has  a  right  to  your  confes- 
sion, for  you  have  wronged  him.     That  would  never  do." 

**  You  are  too  hard  upon  me,"  she  said,  beginning  to 
weep  angrily. 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  the  weight  of  this  sin  off  your 
mindl"  I  said. 

"  Of  course  I  da  I  am  going  to  die.  Oh  dear !  oh 
dcarr 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  493 


**  Then  that  is  just  what  I  want  to  help  you  in.  You 
must  confess,  or  the  weight  of  it  will  stick  there." 

"  But,  if  I  confess,  I  shall  be  expected  to  pay  it 
back." 

**  Of  course.     That  is  only  reasonable." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  it,  I  tell  you.     I  have  lost  it* 

**  Have  you  not  a  sovereign  in  your  possession  ]  * 

«*  No,  not  one." 

"  Can't  you  ask  your  husband  to  let  you  have  onel* 

"  There  1  I  knew  it  was  no  use.  I  knew  you  would 
only  make  matters  worse.  I  do  wish  I  had  never  seen 
that  wicked  money." 

"You  ought  not  to  abuse  the  money.  It  was  not 
wicked.  You  ought  to  wish  that  you  had  returned  it 
But  that  is  no  use.  The  thing  is  to  return  it  now. 
Has  your  husband  got  a  sovereign  ? " 

"  No.  He  may  ha'  got  one  since  I  be  laid  up.  But 
I  never  can  tell  him  about  it.  And  I  should  be  main 
sorry  to  spend  one  of  his  hard  earning  in  that  way,  poor 
man." 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  him.     And  we  'U  manage  it  somehow.* 

1  thought  for  a  few  moments  she  would  break  out  in 
opposition,  but  she  hid  her  face  with  the  sheet  instead, 
and  burst  into  a  great  weeping. 

I  took  this  as  a  permission  to  do  as  I  had  said,  and 
went  to  the  room  door  and  called  her  husband.  He 
came,  looking  scared.  His  wife  did  not  look  up,  but 
lay  weeping.  I  hoped  much  for  her  and  him  too  from 
this  humiliation  before  him,  for  I  had  little  doubt  siie 
needed  it. 


f94  I'iiE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"Your  wife,  poor  woman,"  I  said,  "is  in  great  distress 
because— I  do  not  know  when  or  how — she  picked  up 
a  sovereign  that  did  not  belong  to  her,  and  instead  oi 
returning,  put  it  away  somewhere,  and  lost  it.  This  is 
what  is  making  her  so  miserable." 

"  Deary  me  I "  said  Stokes,  in  the  tone  with  which 
he  would  have  spoken  to  a  sick  child  ;  and  going  up  to 
his  wife  he  sought  to  draw  down  the  sheet  from  her  face, 
apparently  that  he  might  kiss  her,  but  she  kept  tight 
hold  of  it,  and  he  could  not.  "  Deary  me !  "  he  went 
on.  "  We  '11  soon  put  that  all  to  rights.  When  was  it, 
Jane,  that  you  found  it  1 " 

"  When  we  wanted  so  to  have  a  pig  of  our  own  ;  and 
I  thought  I  could  soon  return  it,"  she  sobbed  from  under 
the  sheet. 

"  Deary  me  !  Ten  years  ago  !  Where  did  you  find 
it,  old  woman  ]  ** 

"  I  saw  Squire  Tresham  drop  it,  as  he  paid  me  for 
some  ginger-beer  he  got  for  some  ladies  that  was  with 
him.  I  do  believe  I  should  ha'  given  it  back  at  the 
time,  but  he  made  faces  at  the  ginger-beer,  and  said  it 
was  very  nasty,  and  I  thought,  well,  I  would  punish  him 
for  it" 

"  You  see  it  was  your  temper  that  made  a  thief  of 
jrou,  then,"  I  said. 

**  My  old  man  won't  be  so  hard  on  me  as  you,  sir.  I 
msh  I  had  told  him  first." 

"  I  would  wish  that,  too,"  I  said,  "  were  it  not  that  I 
■m  afraid  you  might  have  persuaded  hiai  to  be  sileiJ 
about  it,  and  so  have  made  him  miserable  and  wid^eJ 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  495 


too.  But  now,  Stokes,  what  is  to  be  clone  1  This 
money  must  be  paid.     Have  you  got  it  1" 

The  poor  man  looked  blank. 

"She  will  never  be  at  ease  till  this  money  is  i  aid,"  I 
insisted. 

**  Well,  sir,  T  'ain't  got  it ;  but  I  'II  borrow  it  of  some 
one.     I  '11  go  to  master,  and  ask  him." 

*'Nq,  my  good  fellow,  that  won't  do.  Your  mastei 
would  want  to  know  what  you  were  going  to  do  with  it, 
perhaps ;  and  we  mustn't  let  more  people  know  about  it 
than  just  ourselves  and  Squire  Tresham.  There  is  no 
occasion  for  that.  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  'il  give  you  the 
money,  and  you  must  take  it — or,  if  you  like,  I  will 
take  it  to  the  squire,  and  tell  him  all  about  it  Do  you 
authorize  me  to  do  this,  Mrs  Stokes  1 " 

"  Please,  sir.  It 's  very  kind  of  you.  I  will  work  hard 
to  pay  you  again,  if  it  please  God  to  spare  me.  I  am 
very  sorry  I  was  so  cross- tempered  to  you,  sir ;  but  I 
couldn't  bear  the  disgrace  of  it." 

She  said  all  this  from  under  the  bed-clothes. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go,"  I  said ;  **  and  as  soon  as  I  've  had  my 
dinner,  I  '11  get  a  horse  and  ride  over  to  Squire  Tresham's. 
I  '11  come  back  to-night  and  tell  you  about  it  And  now 
I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  thank  God  for  forgiving  you 
this  sin.  But  you  must  not  hide  and  cover  it  up,  but 
confess  it  clean  out  to  him,  you  know." 

She  made  me  no  answer,  but  went  on  sobbing. 

I  hastened  home,  and,  as  I  entered,  sent  Walter  to 
ask  the  loan  of  a  horse  which  a  gentleman,  a  neighbour, 
had  placed  at  my  disposaL 


^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

When  I  went  into  the  dining-room,  I  found  that 
tlrey  had  not  sat  down  to  dinner.  I  expostulated ;  it 
was  against  the  rule  of  the  house,  when  my  return  was 
uncertain. 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  my  wife,  "  why  should  you  not 
let  us  please  ourselves  sometimes  1  Dinner  is  so  much 
nicer  when  you  are  with  us." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,"  I  answered.  .  "  But 
there  are  the  children ;  it  is  not  good  for  growing  crea- 
tures to  be  kept  waiting  for  their  meals.** 

"  You  see  there  are  no  children ;  they  have  had  theif 
dinner." 

"  Always  in  the  right,  wifie  j  but  there  's  Mr  Perci- 
vale." 

"  I  never  dine  till  seven  o'clock — to  save  daylignt,"  he 
said. 

**■  Then  I  am  beaten  on  all  points.     Let  us  dine." 

During  dinner  I  could  scarcely  help  observing  how 
Percivale's  eyes  followed  Wynnie,  or,  rather,  every  now 
and  then  settled  down  upon  her  face.  That  she  was 
aware,  almost  conscious  of  this,  I  could  not  doubt.  One 
glance  at  her  satisfied  me  of  that.  But  certain  words 
of  the  apostle  kept  coming  again  and  again  into 
my  mind,  for  they  were  winged  words  those,  and  even 
when  they  did  not  enter  they  fluttered  their  .wings  at  my 
window :  "  Whatsoever  is  not  of  faith  is  sin."  And 
1  kept  reminding  myself  that  I  must  heave  the  load  of 
sin  off  me,  as  I  had  ])een  urging  poor  Mrs  Stokes  to  doj 
for  God  was  ever  seeking  to  lift  it,  only  he  could  not 
without  my  help,  for  that  would  be  to  do  me  more  harxa 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  49? 


than  good,  by  taking  the  one  thing  in  which  I  was  like 
him  away  from  me — my  action.  Therefore  I  must  have 
faith  in  him,  and  not  be  afraid ;  for,  surely,  all  fear  is  sin, 
and  one  of  the  most  oppressive  sins  from  which  the  Lord 
came  to  save  us. 

Before  dinner  was  over  the  horse  was  at  the  door.  I 
mounted,  and  set  out  for  Squire  Tresham's. 

I  found  him  a  rough  but  kind-hearted,  elderly  man. 
When  I  told  him  the  story  of  the  poor  woman's  misery, 
he  was  quite  concerned  at  her  suffering.  When  I  pro- 
duced the  sovereign,  he  would  not  receive  it  at  first,  but 
requested  me  to  take  it  back  to  her,  and  say  she  must 
keep  it  by  way  of  an  apology  for  his  rudeness  about  her 
ginger-beer ;  for  I  took  care  to  tell  him  the  whole  story, 
thinking  it  might  be  a  lesson  to  him  too.  But  I  begged 
him  to  take  it,  for  it  would,  I  thought,  not  only  relieve  hei 
mind  more  thoroughly,  but  help  to  keep  her  from  com- 
ing to  think  lightly  of  the  affair  afterwards.  Of  course  I 
could  not  lell  him  that  I  had  advanced  the  money,  for 
that  would  have  quite  prevented  him  from  receiving  it 
I  then  got  on  my  horse  again,  and  rode  straight  to  the 
cottage. 

"  Well,  Mrs  Stokes,"  I  said,  "  it 's  all  over  now. 
That  *s  one  good  thing  done.  How  do  you  feel  yourself 
now]" 

**  I  feel  better  now,  sir.     I  hope  God  will  forgive  me." 

**  God  does  forgive  you.  But  there  are  more  things 
you  need  forgiveness  for.  It  is  not  enough  to  get  rid  of 
one  sin.  We  must  get  rid  of  all  our  sins,  you  know. 
They're  not  nice  things,  are  they,  to  keep  in  our  hearts! 


49^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

It  is  just  like  shutting  up  nasty  corrupting  things,  dead 
carcasses,  under  lock  and  key,  in  our  most  secret  drawers, 
as  if  they  were  precious  jewels." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  good,  like  some  people,  but  I 
wasn't  made  so.  There's  my  husband  now.  1  do 
believe  he  never  do  anything  wrong  in  his  life.  But 
then,  you  see,  he  would  let  a  child  take  him  in." 

"And  far  better  too.  Infmite^y  better  to  be  taken 
In.  Indeed  there  is  no  harm  in  being  taken  in ;  but 
there  is  awful  harm  in  taking  in." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  I  went  on — 

**  I  ttiink  you  would  feel  a  good  deal  better  yet,  if 
you  would  send  for  your  daughter  and  her  husband 
now,  and  make  it  up  with  them,  especially  seeing  you 
are  so  ill." 

"  I  will,  sir.  I  will  directly.  I  'm  tired  of  having  my 
own  way.     But  I  was  made  so." 

"You  weren't  made  to  continue  so,  at  all  events. 
God  gives  us  the  necessary  strength  to  resist  what  is  bad 
in  us.  He  is  making  at  you  now ;  only  you  must  give 
in,  else  he  cannot  get  on  with  the  making  of  you.  I 
think  very  likely  he  made  you  ill  now,  just  that  you 
might  bethink  yourself,  and  feel  that  you  had  done 
wrong." 

**  I  have  been  feeling  that  for  many  a  year. 

•*That  made  it  the  more  needful  to  make  you  ill ;  for 
jrou  had  been  feelmg  your  duty,  and  yet  not  doing  it ; 
and  that  was  worst  of  all.  You  know  Jesus  came  to  lift 
the  weight  of  our  sins,  our  very  sins  tliemselves,  off  our 
bearts,  by  forgiving  them  and  helping  us  to  cast  thea 


THE    SORE    SPOT.  499 


»way  from  us.  Everything  that  makes  you  uncomfort- 
able must  have  sin  in  it  somewhere,  and  he  came  to 
save  you  from  it.  Send  for  your  daughter  and  her  hus- 
band, and,  when  you  have  done  that,  you  will  think  of 
something  else  to  set  right  that's  wrong." 

•*  But  there  would  be  no  end  to  that  way  of  it,  sir." 
**  Certainly  not,  till  everything  was  put  right." 
"  But  a  body  might  have  nothing  else  to  do,  that 
way." 

"  Well,  that's  the  very  first  thing  that  has  to  be  done. 
It  is  our  business  in  this  world.  We  were  not  sent  here 
to  have  our  own  way  and  try  to  enjoy  ourselves." 

"  That  is  hard  upon  a  poor  woman  that  has  to  work 
for  her  bread." 

"  To  work  for  your  bread  is  not  to  take  your  own 
way,  for  it  is  God's  way.  But  you  have  wanted  many 
things  your  own  way.  Now,  if  you  would  just  take  his 
way,  you  would  find  that  he  would  take  care  you  should 
enjoy  your  life." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  haven't  had  much  enjoyment  in  mine." 
"  That  was  just  because  you  would  not  trust  him  with 
his  own  business,  but  must  take  it  into  your  hands.  If 
you  will  but  do  his  will,  he  will  take  care  that  you  have 
a  life  to  be  very  glad  of  and  very  thankful  for.  And  the 
longer  you  live,  the  more  blessed  you  will  find  it.  But  I 
must  leave  you  now,  for  I  have  talked  to  you  long  enough. 
You  must  try  and  get  a  sleep.  I  will  come  and  see  you 
fgain  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

'•'  Please  do,  sir.'     1  shall  be  very  grateful." 

Vb  1  lode  home  I  ihoa^lu,  il  tiie  hiung  of  one  sin  oil 


$00  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  human  heart  was  Hke  a  resurrection,  what  would  it 
be  when  every  sin  was  hfted  from  every  heart !  Every 
sin,  then,  discovered  in  one's  own  soul  must  be  a  pledge 
of  renewed  bliss  in  its  removing.  And  when  the  thought 
came  again  of  what  St  Paul  had  said  somewhere — *'  what- 
soever is  not  of  faith  is  sin  " — I  thought  what  a  weight 
of  sin  had  to  be  hfted  from  the  earth,  and  how  blessed 
it  might  be.  But  what  could  I  do  for  it?  I  could  just 
begin  with  myself,  and  pray  God  for  that  inward  light 
which  is  his  spirit,  that  so  I  might  see  him  in  everything 
and  rejoice  in  everything  as  his  gift,  and  then  all  things 
would  be  holy,  for  whatsoever  is  of  faith  must  be  the 
opposite  of  sin ;  and  that  was  my  part  towards  heaving 
\lie  weight  of  sin,  which,  like  myriads  of  gravestone! 
was  pressing  the  life  out  of  us  men,  off  the  whole  world. 
Faith  in  God  is  life  and  righteousness — the  faith  that 
trusts  so  that  it  will  obey — none  other.  Lord,  lift  the 
people  thou  hast  made  into  holy  obedience  and  thanks- 
givings that  tliey  may  be  glad  in  this  thy  world. 


CHAPTER    XXXVr. 

THE   GATHERING   STORM. 

JHE  weather  cleared  up  again  the  next  day,  and 
for  a  fortnight  it  was  lovely.  In  this  region 
we  saw  less  of  the  sadness  of  the  dying  yeaf 
than  in  our  own  parish,  for  there  being  so 
few  trees  in  the  vicinity  of  the  ocean,  the  autumn  had 
nowhere  to  hang  out  her  mourning  flags.  But  there, 
indeed,  so  mild  is  the  air,  and  so  equable  the  temperature, 
all  the  winter  through,  compared  with  the  inland  counties, 
that  the  bitterness  of  the  season  is  almost  unknown. 
This,  however,  is  no  guarantee  against  furious  storms  of 
wind  and  rain. 

Not  long  after  the  occurrence  last  recorded,  Turner 
paid  us  another  visit.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  surprised 
At  his  being  able  to  get  away  so  soon  again ;  for  of  all 
men  a  country  surgeon  can  least  easily  find  time  for  a 
holiday ;  but  he  had  managed  it,  and  I  liad  no  doubt, 


502  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

from  what  I  knew  of  him,  had  made  thorough  provision 
for  his  cure  in  his  absence. 

He  brought  us  good  news  from  home.  Everything 
was  going  on  well.  Weir  was  working  as  hard  as  usual  ; 
and  everybody  agreed  that  I  could  not  have  got  a  man 
to  take  my  place  better 

He  said  he  found  Connie  much  improved  ;  and,  fron^ 
my  own  observations,  I  was  sure  he  was  right.  She  was 
now  able  to  turn  a  good  way  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
and  finding  her  health  so  steady  besides,  Turner  en- 
couraged her  in  making  gentle  and  frequent  use  of  her 
strength,  impressing  it  upon  her,  however,  that  every- 
thing depended  on  avoiding  everything  like  a  jerk  or 
twist  of  any  sort  I  was  with  them  when  he  said  this 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  happy  smile. 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can,  Mr  Turner,"  she  said,  "  to  get 
out  of  people's  way  as  soon  as  possible." 

Perhaps  she  saw  something  in  our  faces  that  made 
her  add — 

"  I  know  you  don't  mind  the  bother  I  am  ;  but  I  do. 
I  want  to  help,  and  not  be  helped — more  than  other 
people — as  soon  as  possible.  I  will  therefore  be  as 
gentle  as  mamma  and  as  brave  as  papa,  and  see  if  we 
don't  get  well,  Mr  Turner.  I  mean  to  have  a  ride  on  old 
Spry  next  summer. — I  do,**  she  added,  nodding  her 
pretty  head  up  from  the  pillow,  when  she  saw  the  glance 
the  doctor  and  I  exchanged.  "  Look  here,"  she  went 
on,  poking  the  eider-down  quilt  up  with  her  foot 

"  Magnificent,"  said  Turner  ;  "  but  mind,  you  must  do 
nothing  out  of  bravadc.     That  won't  do  at  alL** 


THE    GATHERING    STORM.  $Oj 

**  I  have  done,**  said  Connie,  putting  on  a  face  of 
mock  submission. 

That  day  we  carried  her  out  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
hardly  laid  her  down,  for  we  were  afraid  of  the  damp 
from  the  earth.  A  few  feet  nearer  or  farther  from  the 
soil  will  make  a  difference.  It  was  the  last  time  for 
many  weeks.  Any  one  interested  in  my  Connie  need 
not  be  alarmed  ;  it  was  only  because  of  the  weather,  not 
because  of  her  health. 

One  day  I  was  walking  home  from  a  visit  I  had  been 
paying  to  Mrs  Stokes.  She  was  much  better,  in  a  fair 
way  to  recover  indeed,  and  her  mental  health  was  im- 
proved as  well.  Her  manner  to  me  was  certainly  very 
different,  and  the  tone^f  her  voice,  when  she  spoke  to 
her  husband  especially,  was  changed :  a  certain  rough- 
ness in  it  was  much  modified,  and  I  had  good  hopes  that 
she  had  begun  to  climb  up  instead  of  sliding  down  the 
hill  of  difficulty,  as  she  had  been  doing  hitherta 

It  was  a  cold  and  gusty  afternoon.  The  sky  eastward 
and  overhead  was  tolerably  clear  when  I  set  out  from 
home  ;  but  when  I  left  the  cottage  to  return,  I  could 
see  that  some  change  was  at  hand.  Shaggy  vapours 
of  light  gray  were  blowing  rapidly  across  the  sky  from 
the  west.  A  wind  was  blowing  fiercely  up  there,  although 
the  gusts  down  below  came  from  the  east  The  clouds 
it  swept  along  with  it  were  formless,  with  loose  fringes- 
disreputable,  troubled,  hasty  clouds  they  were,,  looking 
like  mischief.  They  reminded  me  of  Shelley*s  "  Ode  to 
the  West  Wind,"  in  which  he  compares  the  "loose 
clouds  "  to  hair,  and  calls  them  **  the  locks  of  the  ao 


504  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

preaching  storm."  Away  to  the  west,  a  great  thick  cur- 
tain of  fog,  of  a  luminous  yellow,  covered  all  the  sea- 
horizon,  extending  north  and  south  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  It  looked  ominous.  A  surly  secret  seemed 
to  lie  in  its  bosom.  Now  and  then  I  could  discern 
the  dim  ghost  of  a  vessel  through  it,  as  tacking  for  north 
or  south  it  came  near  enough  to  the  edge  of  the  fog  to 
show  itself  for  a  few  moments,  ere  it  retreated  again  into 
its  bosom.  There  was  exhaustion,  it  seemed  to  me,  in 
the  air,  notwithstanding  the  coolness  of  the  wind,  and  I 
was  glad  when  I  found  myself  comfortably  seated  by  the 
drawing-room  fire  and  saw  Wynnie  bestirring  herself  to 
make  the  tea. 

**  It  looks  stormy,  I  think,  Wy^jnie,**  I  said. 

Her  eye  lightened,  as  she  looked  out  to  sea  from  the 
window. 

"  You  seem  to  like  the  idea  of  it,"  I  added. 

"  You  told  me  I  was  like  you,  papa ;  and  you  look  at 
if  you  liked  the  idea  of  it  too." 

^■^  Per  sgy  certainly,  a  storm  is  pleasant  to  me.  I 
should  not  like  a  world  without  storms  any  more  than 
I  should  hke  that  Frenchman's  idea  of  the  perfection 
of  the  earth,  when  all  wa»  to  be  smooth  as  a  trim  shaven 
lawn,  rocks  and  mountains  banished,  and  the  sea  break- 
ing on  the  shore  only  in  wavelets  of  ginger-beer  or 
lemonade,  I  forget  which.  But  the  older  you  grow,  the 
more  sides  of  a  thing  will  present  themselves  to  your 
contemplation.  The  storm  may  be  grand  and  exciting 
in  itself,  but  you  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  people  that 
are  in  it     Think  for  a  moment  of  the  multitude  ol 


THE    GATHERING    STORM  50J 

vessels,  great  and  small,  which  are  gathered  within  the 
skirts  of  that  angry  vapour  out  there.  I  fear  the  toils  of 
the  storm  are  around  them.  Look  at  the  barometer  in 
the  hall,  ray  dear,  and  tell  me  what  it  sajrs." 

She  went  and  returned. 

"  It  was  not  very  low,  papa — only  at  rain ;  but  the 
moment  I  touched  it,  the  hand  dropped  an  inch." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  so.  All  things  look  stormy.  It  may 
not  be  very  bad  here,  however." 

"  That  doesn't  make  much  difiference  though,  does  it 
papa]" 

"  No  further  than  that  being  creatures  in  time  and 
space,  we  must  think  of  things  from  our  own  stand- 
pomt." 

"  But  I  remember  very  well  how,  when  we  were 
children,  you  would  not  let  nurse  teach  us  Dr  Watts's 
hymns  for  children,  because  you  said  they  tended  to 
encourage  selfishness." 

"  Yes ;  I  remember  it  very  well.  Some  of  them  make 
the  contrast  between  the  misery  of  others  and  our  own 
comforts  so  immediately  the  apparent — mind,  I  only  say 
apparent — ground  of  thankfulness,  that  they  are  not  fit 
for  teaching.  I  do  think  that  if  you  could  put  Dr  Watts 
to  the  question,  he  would  abjure  any  such  intention, 
saying  that  he  only  meant  to  heighten  the  sense  of  our 
obligation.  But  it  does  tend  to  selfishness,  and.  what  is 
worse,  self-righteousness,  ana  is  very  aangerous  tnere- 
fore.  What  right  have  I  to  thank  God  that  I  am  not  as 
other  men  are  in  anything]  I  have  to  thank  God  for 
the  good  things  he  has  given  to  me  j  but  how  dare  1 


506  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

suppose  that  he  is  not  doing  the  same  for  other  people 
in  proportion  to  their  capacity  ?  I  don't  like  to  appear 
to  condemn  Dr  Watts's  hymns.  Certainly  he  has  written 
the  very  worst  hymns  I  know ;  but  he  has  likewise 
written  the  best — for  public  worship,  I  mean." 

*'  Well,  but  papa,  I  have  heard  you  say  that  any 
simple  feeling  that  comes  of  itself  cannot  be  wrong  in 
itself.  If  I  feel  a  delight  in  the  idea  of  a  storm,  I  can- 
Dot  help  it  coming." 

"  I  never  said  you  could,  my  dear.  I  only  said  that 
as  we  get  older,  other  things  we  did  not  feel  at  first 
come  to  show  themselves  more  to  us  and  impress  us 
more." 

Thus  my  child  and  I  went  on,  like  two  pendulums 
crossing  each  other  in  their  swing,  trying  to  reach  the 
same  dead  beat  of  mutual  intelligence. 

"  But,"  said  Wynnie,  "you  say  everybody  is  in  God's 
hands  as  well  as  we." 

"  Yes,  surely,  my  dear ;  as  much  out  in  yon  stormy 
haze  as  here  beside  the  fire." 

**Then  we  ought  not  to  be  miserable  about  them, 
even  if  there  comes  a  storm,  ought  we  I" 

"  No,  surely.  And,  besides,  I  think  if  we  could  help 
any  of  them,  the  very  persons  that  enjoyed  the  storm 
the  most  would  be  the  busiest  to  rescue  them  from  it. 
At  least,  J  fancy  so.     But  isn't  the  tea  ready]" 

**  Yes,  papa.     I  '11  just  go  and  tell  mamma.** 

When  she  returned  with  her  mother,  and  the  children 
had  joined  us,  Wynnie  resumed  the  talk. 

•*  I  know  what  I  'm  going  to  say  is  absurd,  papa,  and 


THK    GATHERING    STORM.  507 

yet  I  don't  see  my  way  out  of  it — logically,  I  suppose 
you  would  call  it.  What  is  the  use  of  taking  any  trouble 
about  them  if  they  are  in  God's  hands  ?  Why  should 
we  try  to  take  them  out  of  God's  hands  ]" 

**  Ah,  Wynnie  !  at  least  you  do  not  seek  to  hide  youi 
bad  logic,  or  whatever  you  call  it  Take  them  out  of 
God's  hands  !  If  you  could  do  that,  it  would  be  perdition 
indeed.  God's  hands  is  the  only  safe  place  in  the  uni- 
verse. And  the  universe  is  in  his  hands.  Are  we  not 
in  God's  hands  on  the  shore  because  we  say  they  are 
in  his  hands  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  1  If  we 
draw  them  on  shore,  surely  they  are  not  out  of  God's 
hands." 

"I  see.  I  see.  But  God  could  save  them  without 
us.'' 

"  Yes ;  but  what  would  become  of  us  then  t  God  Is 
so  good  to  us  that  we  must  work  our  little  salvation  in 
the  earth  with  him.  Just  as  a  father  lets  his  little  child 
help  him  a  little,  that  the  child  may  learn  to  be  and  to 
do,  so  God  puts  it  in  our  hearts  to  save  this  Hfe  to  our 
fellows,  because  we  would  instinctively  save  it  to  our 
selves  if  we  could.     He  requires  us  to  do  our  best" 

"But  God  may  not  mean  to  save  them." 

•*  He  may  mean  them  to  be  drowned — we  do  not 
know.  But  we  know  that  we  must  try  our  little  salvation, 
for  it  will  never  interfere  with  God's  great  and  good  and 
perfect  will.     Ours  will  be  foiled  if  he  sees  that  best.'* 

"But  people  always  say,  when  any  one  escapes  un- 
hurt from  an  accident,  *  by  the  mercy  of  God:  They 
doiit  say  it  is  by  the  mercy  of  God  when  he  is  drowned.* 


508  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  But/^<7//(?  cannot  be  expected,  ought  not  to  say  A\hat 
they  do  not  feel.  Their  own  first  sensation  of  deliverance 
from  impending  death  would  break  out  in  a  '  thank  God/ 
and  therefore  they  say  it  is  God's  mercy  when  another 
is  saved.  If  they  go  farther,  and  refuse  to  consider  it 
God's  mercy  when  a  man  is  drowned,  that  is  just  the 
sin  of  the  world — the  want  of  faith.  But  the  man  who 
creeps  out  of  the  drowning,  choking  billows  into  the 
glory  of  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth— do  you 
think  his  thanksgiving  for  the  mercy  of  God  which  has 
delivered  him  is  less  than  that  of  the  man  who  creeps, 
exhausted  and  worn,  out  of  the  waves  on  to  the  dreary, 
surf-beaten  shore?  In  nothing  do  we  show  less  faith 
than  the  way  in  which  we  think  and  speak  about  death, 
*  O  Death !  where  is  thy  sting?  O  Grave  !  where  is  thy 
victory  f  says  the  apostle.  *  Here,  here,  here,'  cry  the 
Christian  people,  *  everywhere.  It  is  an  awful  sting,  a 
fearful  victory.  But  God  keeps  it  away  from  us  many 
a  time  when  we  ask  him — to  let  it  pierce  us  to  the  heart, 
at  last,  to  be  sure ;  but  that  can't  be  helped.*  I  mean 
this  is  how  they  feel  in  their  hearts  who  do  not  believe 
that  God  is  as  merciful  when  he  sends  death  as  when 
he  sends  life;  who.  Christian  people  as  they  are,  yet 
look  upon  death  as  an  evil  thing  which  cannot  be 
avoided,  and  would,  if  they  might  live  always,  be  con- 
tent  to  live  always.  Death  or  Life — each  is  God's;  for 
he  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living :  there 
are  no  dead,  for  all  live  to  him.** 

"  But  don't  you  think  we  naturally  shrink  from  death, 
Harjy  % "  said  my  wife. 


THE    GATHERING    STORM.  509 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  that,  my  dear." 

**  Then,  if  it  be  natural,  God  must  have  meant  that  it 
ibould  be  so.** 

"  Doubtless,  to  begin  with ;  but  not  to  continue  orerd 
with  A  child's  sole  desire  is  for  food — the  very  best 
possible  to  begin  with.  But  how  would  it  be  if  the  child 
should  reach,  say,  two  years  of  age,  and  refuse  to  share 
this  same  food  with  his  little  brother  ?  Or  what  comes 
of  the  man  who  never  so  far  rises  above  the  desire  for 
food,  that  rtot^m^could  make  him  forget  his  dinner-hour? 
Just  so  the  life  of  Christians  should  be  strong  enough  to 
overcome  the  fear  of  death.  We  ought  to  love  and 
believe  him  so  much,  that  when  he  says  we  shall  not 
die,  we  should  at  least  believe  that  death  must  be  some- 
thing very  different  from  what  it  looks  to  us  to  be — so 
different,  that  what  we  mean  by  the  word  does  not  apply 
to  the  reality  at  all ;  and  so  Jesus  cannot  use  the  word, 
because  it  would  seem  to  us  that  he  meant  what  we 
mean  by  it,  which  he,  seeing  it  all  round,  cannot  mean." 

"  That  does  seem  quite  reasonable,"  said  Ethelwyn. 

Turner  had  taken  no  part  in  the  conversation.  He 
too  had  just  come  in  from  a  walk  over  the  hills.  He 
was  now  standing  looking  out  at  the  sea. 

"  She  looks  uneasy  1     Does  she  not  1 "  I  said. 

"  You  mean  the  Atlantic  1 "  he  returned,  looking 
round.  "Yes,  I  think  so.  I  am  glad  she  is  not  a 
patient  of  mine.  I  fear  she  is  going  to  be  very  feverish, 
probably  delirious  before  morning.  She  won't  sleep 
much,  and  will  talk  rather  loud  when   the  tide  comet 


510  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Disease  has  often  an  ebb  and  flow  like  the  tide,  has 
it  not  ? " 

"Often.  Some  diseases  are  like  a  plant  that  has 
its  time  to  grow  and  blossom,  then  dies ;  others,  as 
you  say,  e6b  and  flow  again  and  again  before  they 
vanish." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  however,  that  the  ebb  and  flow  does 
not  belong  to  the  disease,  but  to  Nature,  which  works 
through  the  disease.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  life  has 
its  tides,  just  like  the  ocean,  only  a  little  more  regularly. 
It  is  high  water  with  me  always  in  the  morning  and 
the  evening  :  in  the  afternoon  life  is  at  its  loAvest ;  and  I 
believe  it  is  lowest  again  while  we  sleep,  and  hence  it 
comes  that  to  work  the  brain  at  night  has  such  an  inju- 
rious effect  on  the  system.  But  this  is  perhaps  all  a 
fancy." 

*' There  may  be  some  truth  in  it  But  I  was  just 
thinking  when  you  spoke  to  me  what  a  happy  thing  it 
is  that  the  tide  does  not  vary  by  an  even  six  hours,  but 
has  the  odd  minutes,  whence  we  see  endless  changes  in 
the  relation  of  the  water  to  the  times  of  the  day.  And 
then  the  spring  tides  and  the  neap  tides  I  What  a  pro- 
vision there  is  in  the  world  for  change  ! " 

"Yes.  Change  is  one  of  the  forms  that  infinitude 
takes  for  the  use  of  us  human  immortals.  But  come  and 
have  some  tea.  Turner.  You  will  not  care  to  go  out 
again.  What  shall  we  do  this  evening?  Shall  we  go  to 
Connie's  room  and  have  some  Shakspere  1 " 

"  I  could  wish  nothing  better.  What  play  shall  we 
have  I" 


THE    GATHERING    STORM.  5II 

"Let  US  have  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  said 
Ethelwyn. 

"  You  like  to  go  by  contraries,  apparently,  Ethel.  But 
you  're  quite  right.  It  is  in  the  winter  of  the  year  that 
art  must  give  us  its  summer.  I  suspect  that  most  of  the 
poetry  about  spring  and  summer  is  written  in  the  winter. 
It  is  generally  when  we  do  not  possess  that  we  lay  full 
value  upon  what  we  lack." 

"  There  is  one  reason,"  said  Wynnie,  with  a  roguish 
look,  **  why  I  like  that  play." 

"I  should  think  there  might  be  more  than  one^ 
Wynnie." 

"But  one  reason  is  enough  for  a  woman  at  once— 
isn't  it,  papa?" 

"  I  'm  not  sure  of  that.     But  what  is  your  reason  ? " 

"  That  the  fairies  are  not  allowed  to  play  any  tricks 
with  the  women.     They  are  true  throughout." 

"  I  might  choose  to  say  that  was  because  they  were 
not  tried." 

'■''  And  I  might  venture  to  answer  that  Shakspere, 
being  true  to  nature  always,  as  you  say,  papa,  knew 
very  well  how  absurd  it  would  be  to  represent  a  woman't 
feelings  as  under  the  influence  of  the  juice  of  a  paltry 
flower." 

"  Capital,  Wynnie  ! "  said  her  mother ;  and  Turner  and 
I  chimed  in  with  our  approbation. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  like  best  in  the  playT  said 
Turner.  "It  is  the  common  sense  of  Theseus  in  ac- 
counting for  all  the  bewilderments  of  the  night." 

'*  But,"  said  Ethelwyn,  "  he  was  wrong  after  aU.  What  it 


5ia  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  use  of  common  sense  if  it  leads  you  wrong  t  The 
common  sense  of  Theseus  simply  amounted  to  this,  that 
he  would  only  believe  his  own  eyes." 

"  I  think  Mrs  Walton  is  right,  Turner,"  I  said.  "For  my 
part,  I  have  more  admired  the  open-mindedness  of  Hip- 
polyta,  who  would  yield  more  weight  to  the  consistency 
of  the  various  testimony  than  could  be  altogether  coun- 
terbalanced by  the  negation  of  her  own  experience.  Now 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  most  admire  in  the  play :  it  is  the 
reconciling  power  of  the  poet.  He  brings  together  such 
marvellous  contrasts,  without  a  single  shock  or  jar  to  youi 
feeling  of  the  artistic  harmony  of  the  conjunction.  Think 
for  a  moment — the  ordinary  common-place  courtiers; 
the  lovers,  men  and  women  in  the  condition  of  all  con- 
ditions in  which  fairy  powers  might  get  a  hold  of  them  ; 
the  quarreling  king  and  queen  of  Fairyland,  with  their 
courtiers,  Blossom,  Cobweb,  and  the  rest,  and  the  court- 
jester.  Puck ;  the  ignorant,  clownish  artisans,  rehearsing 
their  play, — fairies  and  clowns,  lovers  and  courtiers,  are 
all  mingled  in  one  exquisite  harmony,  clothed  with  a 
night  of  early  summer,  rounded  in  by  the  wedding  oJ 
the  king  and  queen.  But  I  have  talked  enough  aboul 
it.     Let  us  get  our  books." 

As  we  sat  in  Connie's  room,  delighting  ourselves  with 
the  reflex  of  the  poets  fancy,  the  sound  of  the  rising  tide 
kept  mingling  with  the  fairy-talk  and  the  foolish  rehearsal 
"  Musk  roses,"  said  Titan ia ;  and  the  first  of  the  blast, 
going  round  by  south  to  west,  rattled  the  window, 
*  Good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow,"  said  Bottom ; 
and  the  roar  of  the  waters  was  in  our  ears.     ^  So  doth 


THE    GATHERING    STORM.  513 

the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle  Gently  entwist," 
said  Titania ;  and  the  blast  poured  the  rain  in  a  spout 
against  the  window.  "  Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in 
mouth  like  bells,"  said  Theseus ;  and  the  wind  whistled 
shrill  through  the  chinks  of  the  bark  house  opening  from 
the  room.  We  drew  the  curtains  closer,  made  up  the 
fire  higher,  and  read  on.  It  was  time  for  supper  ere  we 
had  done ;  and  when  we  left  Connie  to  have  hers  and 
go  to  sleep,  it  was  with  the  hope  that,  through  all  the 
rising  storm,  she  would  dream  of  brecic-hauntcd  suoMttCI 
iroods. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE  GATHERED   STORM 

WOKE  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  the 
darkness  to  hear  the  wind  howling.  It  was 
wide  awake  now,  and  up  with  intent;  it 
seized  the  house,  and  shook  it  furiously, 
and  the  rain  kept  pouring,  only  I  could  not  near  it,  save 
in  the  rallentando  passages  of  the  wind ;  but  through  alj 
the  wind  I  could  hear  the  roaring  of  the  big  waves  or. 
the  shore.  I  did  not  wake  my  wife,  but  I  got  up,  put 
on  my  dressing-gown,  and  went  softly  to  Connie's  room, 
to  see  whether  she  was  awake,  for  I  feared  if  she  were, 
iihe  would  be  frightened.  Wynnie  always  slept  in  a  little 
bed  in  the  same  room.  I  opened  the  door  very  gently, 
and  peeped  in.  The  fire  was  burning,  for  Wynnie  was 
an  admirable  stoker,  and  could  generally  keep  the  fire 
fn  all  night  I  crept  to  the  bedside  ;  there  was  just  light 
enough  to  see  that  Connie  was  fast  asleep,  and  that  hei 
4reams  were  not  of  storms.     It  was  a  marvel  how  well 


THE    GATKER£0    STORM.  $1$ 


the  child  always  slept.  But,  as  I  turned  to  leave  the 
room,  \Vynnie*s  voice  called  me  in  a  whisper.  Ap 
proaching  her  bed,  I  saw  her  wide  eyes,  like  the  eyes 
of  the  darkness,  for  I  could  scarcely  see  anything  of 
her  face. 

"  Awake,  darling ]"  I  said. 

"Yes,  papa.  I  have  been  awake  a  long  time;  but 
isn't  Connie  sleeping  delightfully?  She  does  sleep  so 
well !    Sleep  is  surely  very  good  for  her." 

"  It  is  the  best  thing  for  us  all,  next  to  God*s  spirit,  I 
sometimes  think,  my  dear.  But  are  you  frightened  by 
the  storm  ?     Is  that  what  keeps  you  awake  1" 

"  I  don't  think  that  is  what  keeps  me  awake,  but 
sometimes  the  house  shakes  so  that  I  do  feel  a  little 
nervous.  I  don't  know  how  it  is.  I  never  felt  afraid  of 
anything  natural  before." 

"  What  our  Lord  said  about  not  being  afraid  of  any- 
thing that  could  only  hurt  the  body  applies  here,  and  in 
ail  the  terrors  of  the  night,  think  about  him,  dear." 

"  I  do  try,  papa.  Don't  you  stop.  You  will  get  cold. 
It  is  a  dreadful  storm,  is  it  not  1  Suppose  there  should 
be  people  drowning  out  there  now  I " 

**  There  may  be,  my  love.  People  are  dying  almost 
every  other  moment,  I  suppose,  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Drowning  is  only  an  easy  way  of  dying.  Mind,  they  are 
all  in  God's  hands." 

"  Yes,  papa.  I  will  turn  round  and  shut  my  eyes,  and 
fancy  that  his  hand  is  over  them,  making  them  dark  with 
his  care." 

"  And  it  will  not  be  fancy,  my  darling,  if  you  da 


$l6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

You  remember  those  odd  but  no  less  devout  lines  of 
George  Herbert? — ^just  after  he  says, so  beautifully,  'And 
now  with  darkness  closest  weary  eyes ; '  he  adds  :— 

Thus  in  thy  ebony  box 
Thou  dost  inclose  us,  till  the  day 
Put  our  amendment  in  our  way, 
And  give  new  wheels  to  our  disordered  clocks. 

He  is  very  fond  of  boxes,  by  the  way.  So  go  to  sleepy 
dear.  You  are  a  good  clock  of  God's  making,  but 
you  want  new  wheels,  according  to  our  beloved  brother 
George  Herbert.     Therefore  sleep.     Good  night" 

This  was  tiresome  talk — was  it — in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  reader?  Well,  but  my  child  did  not  think  so,  I 
know. 

Dark,  dank,  weeping,  the  morning  dawned.  All 
dreary  was  the  earth  and  sky.  The  wind  was  still  hunt- 
ing the  clouds  across  the  heavens.  It  lulled  a  little 
while  we  sat  at  breakfast,  but  soon  the  storm  was  up 
again,  and  the  wind  raved,  I  went  out  The  wind 
caught  me  as  if  with  invisible  human  hands,  and  shook 
me.  I  fought  with  it,  and  made  my  way  into  the  village. 
The  streets  were  deserted.  I  peeped  up  the  inn-yard  as 
I  passed  :  not  a  man  or  horse  was  to  be  seen.  The  little 
shops  looked  as  if  nobody  had  crossed  their  thresholds 
for  a  week.  Not  a  door  was  open.  One  child  came  out 
of  the  baker's  with  a  big  loaf  in  her  apron.  The  wind 
threatened  to  blow  the  hair  off  her  head,  if  not  herself 
first  into  the  canal  I  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her, 
or  rather,  let  her  lead  mc  home,  while  I  kept  her  from 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  517 

being  carried  away  by  the  wind  Having  landed  her 
safely  inside  her  mother's  door,  I  went  on,  climbed  the 
heights  above  the  village,  and  looked  abroad  over  the 
Atlantic.  What  a  waste  of  aimless  tossing  to  and  fro  1 
Grey  mist  above  full  of  falling  rain  ;  grey,  wrathful  waters 
underneath,  foarning  and  bursting  as  billow  broke  upon 
billow.  The  tide  was  ebbing  now,  but  almost  every 
other  wave  swept  the  breakwater.  They  burst  on  the 
rocks  at  the  end  of  it,  and  rushed  in  shattered  spouts 
and  clouds  of  spray  far  into  the  air  over  their  heads. 
*'  Will  the  time  ever  come,"  I  thought,  "  when  man  shall 
be  able  to  store  up  even  this  force  for  his  own  ends  1 
who  can  tell  1  '*  The  solitary  form  of  a  man  stood  at 
some  distance  gazing,  as  I  was  gazing,  out  on  the  ocean. 
I  walked  towards  him,  thinking  with  myself  who  it  could 
be  that  loved  Nature  so  well  that  he  did  not  shrink  from 
her  even  in  her  most  uncompanionable  moods.  I  sus- 
pected, and  soon  found  I  was  right :  it  was  Percivale. 

"  What  a  clashing  of  water-drops  !  **  I  said,  thinking 
of  a  line  somewhere  in  Coleridge's  "  Remorse."  "  They 
are  but  water-drops,  after  all,  that  make  this  great  noise 
upon  the  rocks  ;  only  there  is  a  great  many  of  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Percivale.  "  But  look  out  yonder.  You 
see  a  single  sail,  close-reefed — that  is  all  I  can  see- 
away  in  the  mist  there  I  As  soon  as  you  think  of  the 
human  struggle  with  the  elements,  as  soon  as  you  know 
that  hearts  are  in  the  midst  of  it,  it  is  a  clashing  of  water- 
drops  no  more.  It  is  an  awful  power,  with  which  the 
will  and  all  that  it  rules  have  to  fight  for  the  mastery.  Of 
at  least  for  freedom.** 


5l8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  Surely  you  are  right.  It  is  the  presence  of  thought, 
feeling,  effort  that  gives  the  majesty  to  everything.  It 
is  even  a  dim  attribution  of  human  feelings  to  this  tor- 
mented, passionate  sea  that  gives  it  much  of  its  awe, 
although,  as  we  were  saying  the  other  day,  it  is  only  a 
fidure  of  the  troubled  mind.  But  as  I  have  now  seen 
bow  matters  are  with  the  elements,  and  have  had  a  good 
pluvial  bath  as  well,  I  think  I  will  go  home  and  change 
my  clothes." 

"  I  have  hardly  had  enough  of  it  yet,"  returned  Perci- 
vale.  "  I  shall  have  a  stroll  along  the  heights  here,  and 
when  the  tide  has  fallen  a  little  way  from  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs  I  shall  go  down  on  the  sands,  and  watch  a  while 
there." 

"  Well,  you  're  a  younger  man  than  I  am  ;  but  I  've 
seen  the  day,  as  Lear  says.  What  an  odd  tendency  we 
old  men  have  to  boast  of  the  past :  we  would  be  judged 
by  the  past,  not  by  the  present.  We  always  speak  of 
the  strength  that  is  withered  and  gone,  as  if  we  had  some 
claim  upon  it  still.  But  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  in  this 
storm.     I  am  always  talking." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  village,  and  then  I 
will  turn  and  take  my  way  along  the  downs  for  a  mile  or 
two.     I  don't  mind  being  wet." 

**  I  didn't  once." 

•*  Don't  you  think,"  resumed  Percivale,  "  that  in  some 
sense  the  old  man — not  that  I  can  allow ^y^w  that  dignity 
yet,  Mr  Walton — has  a  right  to  regard  the  past  as  his 
ownr* 

*•  That  would  be  scanned,**  I  answered,  as  we  walked 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  519 

towards  the  village.  "  Surely  the  results  of  the  past  are 
the  man*s  own.  Any  action  of  the  man's  upon  which 
the  life  in  him  reposes  remains  his.  But  suppose  a  man 
had  done  a  good  deed  once,  and  instead  of  making  that 
a  foundation  upon  which  to  build  more  good,  grew  so 
vain  of  it  that  he  became  incapable  of  doing  anything 
more  of  the  same  sort,  you  could  not  say  that  the  action 
belonged  to  him  still.  Therein  he  has  severed  his  con- 
nection with  the  past  Again,  what  has  never  in  any 
deep  sense  been  a  man's  own,  cannot  surely  continue  t» 
be  his  afterwards.  Thus  the  things  that  a  man  has 
merely  possessed  once,  the  very  people  who  most  ad- 
mired him  for  their  sakes  when  he  had  them,  give  him 
no  credit  for  after  he  has  lost  them.  Riches  that  have 
taken  to  themselves  wings  leave  with  the  poor  man  only 
a  surpassing  poverty.  Strength,  likewise,  which  can  so 
little  depend  on  any  exercise  of  the  will  in  man,  passes 
from  him  with  the  years.  It  was  not  his  all  the  time. 
It  was  but  lent  him,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  his 
inward  force.  A  bodily  feeble  man  may  put  forth  a 
mighty  life-strength  in  effort,  and  show  nothing  to  the 
eyes  of  his  neighbour^  while  the  strong  man  gains  endless 
admiration  for  what  he  could  hardly  help.  But  the 
effort  of  the  one  remains,  for  it  was  his  own ;  the  strength 
of  the  other  passes  from  him,  for  it  was  never  his  own. 
So  with  beauty,  which  the  commonest  woman  acknow- 
ledges never  to  have  been  hers  in  seeking  to  restore 
it  by  deception.  So,  likewise,  in  a  great  measure  with 
intellect" 

"But  if  you   take   away   intellect  as   well,   what  do 


pO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

you  leave  a  man  that  can  in  any  way  be  called  his 
own?" 

"  Certainly  his  intellect  is  not  his  own.  One  thing 
only  is  his  own — to  will  the  truth.  This  too  is  as  aiuch 
God's  gift  as  everything  else  :  I  ought  to  say  is  more 
God's  gift  than  anything  else,  for  he  gives  it  to  be  the 
man's  own  more  than  anything  else  can  be.  And  when 
he  wills  the  truth,  he  has  God  himself.  Man  can  possess 
God :  all  other  things  follow  as  necessary  results.  What 
poor  creatures  we  should  have  been  if  God  had  not  made 
us  to  do  something — to  look  heavenwards — to  lift  up 
the  hands  that  hang  down,  and  strengthen  the  feeble 
Vnees !  Something  like  this  was  in  the  mind  of  the 
prophet  Jeremiah  when  he  said,  *  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 
Let  not  the  wise  man  glory  in  his  wisdom,  neither  let  the 
mighty  man  glory  in  his  might,  let  not  the  rich  man 
glory  in  his  riches ;  but  let  him  that  glorieth  glory  in 
this,  that  he  understandefch  and  knoweth  me,  that  I  am 
the  Lord  which  exercise  loving  kindness,  judgment,  and 
righteousness  in  the  earth :  for  in  these  things  I  delight, 
saith  the  Lord.'  My  own  conviction  is  that  a  vague 
sense  of  a  far  higher  life  in  ourselves  than  we  yet  know 
anything  about,  is  at  the  root  of  all  our  false  efforts  to 
be  able  to  think  something  of  ourselves.  We  cannot 
commend  ourselves,  and  therefore  we  set  about  pridmg 
ourselves.  We  have  little  or  no  strength  of  mind, 
faculty  of  operation,  or  worth  of  will,  and  therefore  we 
talk  of  our  strength  of  body,  worship  the  riches  we  have, 
or  have  not,  it  is  all  one,  and  boast  of  our  paltry  intel- 
kctual  successes.     The  man   iii  ^i   auibitious  of  being 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  5SI 

considered  a  universal  genius,  must  at  last  confess  him- 
self a  conceited  dabbler,  and  be  ready  to  part  with  all 
he  knows  for  one  glimpse  more  of  that  understanding 
of  God  which  the  wise  men  of  old  held  to  be  essential 
♦o  every  man,  but  which  the  growing  luminaries  of  the 
present  day  will  not  allow  to  be  even  possible  for  any 
man." 

We  had  reached  the  brow  of  the  heights,  and  here 
we  parted.  A  fierce  blast  of  wind  rushed  at  me,  and  I 
hastened  down  the  hill.  How  dreary  the  streets  did 
look  ! — how  much  more  dreary  than  the  stormy  down  I 
I  saw  no  living  creature  as  I  returned  but  a  terribly 
draggled  dog,  a  cat  that  seemed  to  have  a  bad  con- 
science, and  a  lovely  little  girl-face,  which,  forgetful  oi 
its  own  rights,  would  flatten  the  tip  of  the  nose  belong- 
ing to  it  against  a  window-pane.  Every  rain  pool  was  a 
mimic  sea,  and  had  a  mimic  storm  within  its  own  narrow 
bounds.  The  water  went  hurrying  down  the  kennels 
like  a  long  brown  snake  anxious  to  get  to  its  hole  and 
hide  from  the  tormenting  wind,  and  every  now  and 
then  the  rain  came  in  full  rout  before  the  conquering 
blast. 

When  I  got  home  I  peeped  in  at  Connie's  door  the 
first  thing,  and  saw  that  she  was  raised  a  little  more  than 
usual ;  that  is,  the  end  of  the  couch  against  which  she 
leaned  was  at  a  more  acute  angle.  She  was  sitting 
staring,  rather  than  gazing,  out  at  the  wild  tumult  which 
she  could  see  over  the  shoulder  of  the  down  on  which 
her  window  immediately  looked.  Her  face  was  palef 
and  keener  than  usual 


$22  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**\\Tiy,  Connie,  who  set  you  up  so  straight  f 

**  Mr  Turner,  papa.  I  wanted  to  see  out,  and  he 
raised  me  himself.  He  says  I  am  so  much  better,  I 
may  have  it  in  the  seventh  notch  as  often  as  I  Hke." 

"  But  you  look  too  tired  for  it.  Hadn't  you  better  lie 
down  again?" 

"  It 's  only  the  storm,  papa.** 

"  The  more  reason  you  should  not  jee  it  if  it  tires 
you  so." 

*'  It  does  not  tire  me,  papa.  Only  I  keep  constantly 
wondering  what  is  going  to  come  out  of  it.  It  looks  so 
as  if  something  must  follow/* 

"  You  didn't  hear  me  come  into  your  room  last  night, 
Connie.  The  storm  was  raging  then  as  loud  as  it  is 
now,  but  you  were  out  of  its  reach — fast  asleep.  Now 
it  is  too  much  for  you.     You  must  lie  down." 

"  Very  well,  papa." 

I  lowered  the  support,  and  when  I  returned  from 
changing  my  wet  garments  she  was  already  looking 
much  better. 

After  dinner  I  w^nt  to  my  study,  but  when  evening 
liegan  to  fall  I  went  out  again.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
our  next  neighbours,  the  sexton  and  his  wife,  were  faring. 
The  wind  had  already  increased  in  violence.  It  threat- 
ened to  blow  a  hurricane.  The  tide  was  again  rising, 
and  was  coming  in  with  great  rapidity.  The  old  mill 
snook  to  the  foundation  as  I  passed  through  it  to  reach 
the  lower  part  where  they  lived.  When  I  peeped  in 
from  the  bottom  of  the  stair,  I  saw  no  one  ;  bivt,  hearing 
the  steps  of  some  one  overhead,  I  called  out. 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  513 

Agnes's  voice  made  answer,  as  she  descended  an 
inner  stair  which  led  to  the  bed-rooms  above — 

"  Mother  *s  gone  to  church,  sir."  • 

"  Gone  to  church ! "  I  said,  a  vague  pang  darting 
through  me  as  I  thought  whether  I  had  forgotten  any 
service ;  but  the  next  moment  I  recalled  what  the  old 
woman  had  herself  told  me  of  her  preference  for  the 
church  during  a  storm. 

"  Oh  yes,  Agnes  !  I  remember,"  I  said  ;  "  your  mother 
thinks  the  weather  bad  enough  to  take  to  the  church, 
does  she  1  How  do  you  come  to  be  here  now  1  Where 
is  your  husband  1 " 

"  Ke  '11  be  here  in  an  hour  or  so,  sir.  He  don't  mind 
the  wet.  You  see,  we  don't  like  the  old  people  to  be 
left  alone  when  it  blows  what  the  sailors  call  *  great 
guns.' " 

"  And  what  becomes  of  his  mother  then  1  ** 

"  There  don't  be  any  sea  out  there,  sir.  Leastways," 
she  added  with  a  quiet  smile,  and  stopped. 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,  Agnes,  that  there  is  never 
any  perturbation  of  the  elements  out  there  ? " 

She  laughed;  for  she  understood  me  well  enough. 
The  temper  of  Joe's  mother  was  proverbial 

"But  really,  sir,"  she  said,  "she  don't  mind  the 
weather  a  bit ;  and  though  we  don't  live  in  the  same 
cottage  with  her,  for  Joe  wouldn't  hear  of  that,  we  see 
her  far  oftener  than  we  see  my  mother,  you  know." 

"  I  'm  sure  it 's  quite  fair,  Agnes.  Is  Joe  very  sorry 
that  he  married  you,  now  I" 

She  hung  her  head,  and  blushed  so  deeply  through  all 


514  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

her  sallow  complexion,  that  I  was  sorry  I  had  teased  her, 
ard  said  so.     This  brought  a  reply. 

"  I  don't  tRink  he  be,  sir.  I  do  think  he  gets  better. 
He 's  been  working  very  hard  the  last  week  or  two,  and 
he  says  it  agrees  with  him." 

"And  bow  are  youl" 

'*  Quite  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

I  had  never  seen  her  look  half  so  well.  Life  was 
evidently  a  very  different  thing  to  both  of  them  now.  I 
left  her  and  took  my  way  to  the  church. 

When  I  reached  the  churchyard,  there,  in  the  middle 
of  the  rain  and  the  gathering  darkness,  was  the  old  man 
busy  with  the  duties  of  his  calling.  A  certain  headstone 
stood  right  under  a  drip  from  the  roof  of  the  southern 
transept )  and  this  drip  had  caused  the  mould  at  the 
foot  of  the  stone,  on  the  side  next  the  wall,  to  sink,  so 
that  there  was  a  considerable  crack  between  the  stone  and 
the  soil.  The  old  man  had  cut  some  sod  from  another 
part  of  the  churchyard,  and  was  now  standing,  with  the 
rain  pouring  on  him  from  the  roof,  beatmg  this  sod 
down  in  the  crack.  He  was  sheltered  from  the  wind  by 
the  church,  but  he  was  as  wet  as  he  could  be.  1  may 
mention  that  he  never  appeared  in  the  least  disconcerted 
when  I  came  upon  him  in  the  discharge  of  his  functions; 
he  was  so  content  with  his  own  feeling  in  the  matter, 
that  no  difference  of  opinion  could  disturb  him. 

"This  will  never  do,  Coombes,"  I  said.  "You  will 
get  your  death  of  cold.  You  must  be  as  full  of  water  as 
a  sponge     Old  man,  there  *s  rheumatism  in  the  world  !** 

**  It  be  only  my  work,  sir.     But  1  believe  I  ha'  done 


'BUT,    HEARING    THE    STK 
CALLED    OUT." 


SOME   ONE    OVERHEAD.   I 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  %2^ 

now  for  a  night.  I  think  he  '11  be  a  bit  more  comfort- 
able now.  The  very  wind  could  get  at  him  through  that 
hole." 

"  Do  go  home,  then,"  I  said,  "  and  change  youi 
clothes.     Is  your  wife  in  the  church  ?  ** 

"  She  be,  sir.  This  door,  sir — this  door,"  he  added,  as 
he  saw  me  going  round  to  the  usual  entrance.  "You'll 
find  her  in  there." 

I  lifted  the  great  latch  and  entered.  I  could  not  see 
her  at  first,  for  it  was  much  darker  inside  the  church. 
It  felt  very  quiet  in  there  somehow,  although  the  place 
was  full  of  the  noise  of  winds  and  waters.  Mrs  Coombes 
«vas  not  sitting  on  the  bell-keys,  where  I  looked  for  her 
first,  for  the  wind  blew  down  the  tower  in  many  currents 
and  draughts — how  it  did  roar  up  there — as  if  the  louvres 
had  been  a  windsail  to  catch  the  wind  and  send  it  down 
to  ventilate  the  church  ! — she  was  sitting  at  the  foot  o( 
the  chancel-rail,  with  her  stocking  as  usual. 

The  sight  of  her  sweet  old  face,  lighted  up  by  a 
moonlike  smile  as  I  drew  near  her,  in  the  middle  of 
the  ancient  dusk  filled  with  sounds,  but  only  sounds,  of 
tempest,  gave  me  a  sense  of  one  dwelling  in  the  secret 
place  of  the  Most  High,  such  as  I  shall  never  forget 
It  was  no  time  to  say  much,  however. 

"  How  long  do  you  mean  to  stay  here,  Mrs  Coombes  1" 
I  asked.     "  Not  all  night?" 

"  No,  not  all  night,  surely,  sir  But  I  hadn't  thought 
o'  going  yet  for  a  bit." 

"  Why  there 's  Coombes  out  there,  wet  to  the  skin  ; 
and  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  go  on  pottering  at  the  churchyard 


526  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 


bed-clothes  till  he  gets  his  bones  as  full  of  rheumatism 
as  they  can  hold." 

"  Deary  me  I  I  didn't  know  as  my  old  man  was  there. 
He  tould  me  he  had  them  all  comforble  for  the  winter 
a  week  ago.  But  to  be  sure  there's  always  some  mendiu* 
to  do." 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Joe  ouiside,  and  the  next  moment 
he  came  into  the  church.  After  speaking  to  me  he  turned 
to  Mrs  Coombes. 

**  You  be  comin*  home  with  me,  mother.  This  will 
never  do.  Father  *s  as  wet  as  a  mop.  I  ha'  brought 
something  for  your  supper,  and  Aggy  's  a-cookin'  of  it, 
and  we're  going  to  be  comfortable  over  the  fire,  and 
have  a  chapter  or  two  of  the  New  Testament  to  keep 
down  the  noise  of  the  sea.     There  !     Come  along." 

The  old  woman  drew  her  cloak  over  her  head,  put  her 
knitting  carefully  in  her  pocket,  and  stood  aside  for  me 
to  lead  the  way. 

"No,  no,"  I  said;  "I'm  the  shepherd  and  you're  the 
sheep,  so  I'll  drive  you  before  me — at  least  you  and 
Coombes.  Joe  here  will  be  offended  if  I  take  on  me  to 
say  I  am  his  shepherd." 

"  Nay,  nay,  don't  say  that,  sir.  You  *ve  been  a  good 
shepherd  to  me,  when  I  was  a  very  sulky  sheep.  But  ii 
you  '11  please  to  go,  sir,  I  '11  lock  the  door  behind  ;  for 
you  know  in  them  parts  the  shepherd  goes  first,  and  the 
sheep  follow  the  shepherd.  And  I  '11  follow  like  a  good 
sheep,"  he  added  laughing. 

"  You  're  right,  Joe,"  I  said,  and  took  the  lead  without 
more  ado. 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  52| 

I  was  Struck  by  his  saying  them  parts^  which  seemed 
to  indicate  a  habit  of  pondering  on  the  places  as  well 
as  circumstances  of  the  gospel  story.  The  sexton  joined 
us  at  the  door,  and  we  all  walked  to  his  cottage,  Joe 
taking  care  of  his  mother-in-law,  and  I  taking  what  care 
I  could  of  Coombes  by  carrying  his  tools  for  him.  But 
as  we  went  I  feared  I  had  done  ill  in  that,  for  the  wind 
blew  so  fiercely  that  I  thought  the  thin  feeble  little  man 
would  have  got  on  better  if  he  had  been  more  heavily 
weighted  against  it.  But  I  made  him  take  a  hold  of  my 
arm,  and  so  we  got  in.  The  old  man  took  his  tools  from 
me  and  set  them  down  in  the  mill — for  the  roof  of  which 
I  felt  some  anxiety  as  we  passed  through,  so  full  of  wind 
was  the  whole  space.  But  when  we  opened  the  inner 
door  the  welcome  of  a  glowing  fire  burst  up  the  stair  as 
if  that  had  been  a  well  of  warmth  and  light  below.  I 
went  down  with  them.  Coombes  departed  to  change 
his  clothes,  and  the  rest  of  us  stood  round  the  fire  where 
Agnes  was  busy  cooking  something  like  white  puddings 
for  their  supper. 

"  Did  you  hear,  sir,"  said  Joe,  "  that  the  coastguard  is 
off  to  the  Goose-pot  1  There's  a  vessel  ashore  there, 
they  Stt/.     I  met  them  on  the  road  with  the  rocket-cart  ** 

*'  How  far  off  is  that,  Joe  % " 

**  Some  five  or  six  miles,  I  suppose,  along  the  coast 
nor'ards." 

•  What  sort  of  a  vessel  is  she  1  ** 

'•  That  I  don't  know.  Some  say  she  be  a  schooner, 
others  a  brigantine.  The  coastguard  didn't  know  them- 
stives." 


528  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Poor  things  \"  said  Mrs  Coombes.  "  If  any  of  them 
comes  ashore,  they  '11  be  sadly  knocked  to  pieces  on  the 
rocks  in  a  night  like  this." 

She  had  caught  a  little  infection  of  her  husband's  mode 
of  thought. 

"  It 's  not  likely  to  clear  up  before  morning,  I  fear ;  is 
it,  Joe  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,  sir.     There  *s  no  likelihood." 

"  Will  you  condescend  to  sit  down  and  take  a  share 
with  us,  sir?"  said  the  old  woman. 

"There  would  be  no  condescension  in  that,  Mrs 
Coombes.  I  will  another  time  with  all  my  heart.  But 
i\\  such  a  night  I  ought  to  be  at  home  with  my  own 
people.     They  will  be  more  uneasy  if  I  am  away  " 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse,  sir." 

"  So  I  '11  bid  you  good  night.  I  wish  this  storm  were 
well  over." 

I  buttoned  my  great-coat,  pulled  my  hat  down  on 
my  head,  and  set  out  It  was  getting  on  for  high  water. 
The  night  was  growing  very  dark.  There  would  be  a 
moon  some  time,  but  the  clouds  were  so  dense  she 
could  not  do  much  while  they  came  between.  The 
roaring  of  the  waves  on  the  shore  was  terrible  :  all  I 
could  see  of  them  now  was  the  whiteness  of  their  break- 
ing, but  they  filled  the  earth  and  the  air  with  their 
furious  noises.  The  wind  roared  from  the  sea ;  two 
oceans  were  breaking  on  the  land,  only  to  the  one  had 
Leen  set  a  hitherto — to  the  other  none.  Ere  the  night 
was  far  gone,  however,  1  had  begun  to  doubt  whether 
tlie  ocean  itself  had  not  broken  its  barib 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  529 

I  found  the  whole  household  full  of  the  storm.  The 
children  kept  pressing  their  faces  to  the  windows  trying 
to  pierce  as  by  force  of  will  through  the  darkness,  and 
discover  what  the  wild  thing  out  there  was  doing.  They 
could  see  nothing ;  all  was  one  mass  of  blackness  and 
dismay,  with  a  soul  in  it  of  ceaseless  roaring.  I  ran  up 
to  Connie's  room,  and  found  that  she  was  left  alone. 
She  looked  restless,  pale,  and  frightened.  The  house 
quivered,  and  still  the  wind  howled  and  whistled  through 
the  adjoining  bark-hut. 

"  Connie,  darling,  have  they  left  you  alone  V*  1 
said. 

"  Only  for  a  few  minutes,  papa.     I  don't  mind  it.** 

"  Don't  be  frightened  at  the  storm,  my  deal.  He 
who  could  walk  on  the  sea  of  Galilee,  and  still  the 
storm  of  that  little  pool,  can  rule  the  Atlantic  just  as 
well.  Jeremiah  says  *  he  divideth  the  sea  when  the  wave« 
thereof  roar.* " 

The  same  moment  Dora  came  running  into  the 
room. 

"Papa!"  she  cried,  "the  spray — such  a  lot  of  it- 
came  dashing  on  the  windows  in  the  dining-room.  Will 
it  break  them  1 " 

"  I  hope  not,  my  dear.  Just  stay  with  Connie  while 
f  run  down." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  I  do  want  to  see.* 

**  What  do  you  want  to  see,  Dora  I" 

**  The  storm,  papa." 

**  It  is  as  black  as  pitch.    You  can't  see  anythinj;.* 

**  Oh,  but  I  want  to — to — be  beside  it." 

1  L 


530  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Well,  you  shan't  stay  with  Connie,  if  you  are  not 
willing.     Go  along.     Ask  Wynnie  tp  come  here." 

The  child  was  so  possessed  by  the  commotion  without, 
that  she  did  not  seem  even  to  see  my  rebuke,  not  to  say 
feel  it  She  ran  off,  and  Wynnie  presently  came.  I  left 
her  with  Connie,  put  on  a  long  waterproof  cloak,  and 
went  down  to  the  dining-room.  A  door  led  from  it 
immediately  on  to  the  little  green  in  front  of  tlie  house, 
between  it  and  the  sea.  The  dining-room  was  dark,  for 
they  had  put  out  the  lights  that  they  might  see  better 
from  the  windows.  The  children  and  some  of  the 
servants  were  there  looking  out.  I  opened  the  door 
cautiously.  It  needed  the  strength  of  two  of  the  wo.nen 
to  shut  it  behind  me.  The  moment  I  opened  it,  a  great 
sheet  of  spray  rushed  over  me.  I  went  down  the  little 
grassy  slope.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  it  was  not  quite 
so  dark  as  I  had  expected.  I  could  see  the  gleaming  white- 
ness all  before  me.  The  next  moment  a  wave  roiled 
over  the  low  wall  in  front  of  me,  breaking  on  it,  and 
wrapping  me  round  in  a  sheet  of  water.  Something 
hurt  me  sharply  on  the  leg;  and  I  found  on  search* 
ing  that  one  of  the  large  flat  stones  that  lay  for  coping 
on  the  top  of  the  wall,  was  on  the  grass  beside  me. 
If  it  had  struck  me  straight,  it  must  have  broken  my 
leg. 

There  came  a  little  lull  in  the  wind,  and  ^ust  as  I 
turned  to  go  into  the  house  again,  I  though-.  I  heard  a 
gun.  I  stood  and  listened,  but  heard  nofiing  more, 
and  fancied  I  must  have  been  mistaken.  J  returned 
and  tapped  at  the  door;  but  I   had   to  knock  Ipudljr 


THE    GATHERED    STORM.  53I 

before  they  heard  me  within.  When  I  went  up  to  tlie 
drawinj-room,  I  found  that  Percivale  had  joined  our 
party.  He  and  Turner  were  talking  together  at  one  oi 
the  windows. 

"  Did  you  iiear  a  gun  ?**  I  asked  them. 

"  No.     Was  there  one  1 " 

**  I  'm  not  sure.  I  half  fancied  I  heard  one,  but  no 
other  followed.  There  will  be  a  good  many  fired  to- 
night, though,  along  this  awful  coast." 

*'  I  suppose  they  keep  the  life-boat  always  ready,* 
said  Turner. 

"  No  life-boat  even,  I  fear,  would  live  in  such  a  sea,** 
I  said,  remembering  what  the  officer  of  the  coastguard 
had  told  me. 

"  They  would  try,  though,  I  suppose,"  said  Turner. 

**  I  do  not  know,"  said  Percivale.  "  I  don't  know  the 
people.  But  I  have  seen  a  life-boat  out  in  as  bad  a 
night — whether  in  as  bad  a  sea,  I  cannot  tell :  that 
depends  on  the  coast,  I  suppose." 

We  went  on  chatting  for  some  time,  wondering  how 
the  coastguard  had  fared  with  the  vessel  ashore  at  the 
Goosepot.     Wynnie  joined  us. 

"  How  is  Connie,  now,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Very  restless  and  excited,  papa.  I  came  down  to 
say,  that  if  Mr  Turner  didn't  mind,  I  wish  he  would  go 
up  and  see  her." 

"  Of  course — ^instantly,"  said  Turner,  and  moved  to 
follow  Wynnie. 

But  the  same  moment,  as  if  it  had  been  beside  us  in 
the  room,  r.o  clear,  so  shrill  was  it,  we  heard  Connie't 


53*  THE    4,£ABOARD    PARISH. 

voice  shrieking,  "  Papa  !  papa  !  There 's  a  great  ship 
ashore  down  there.     Come  !  come  !" 

Turner  and  I  rushed  from  the  room  in  fear  and  dis- 
may. "  How  1  What  ?  Where  could  the  voice  come 
froml'*  was  the  unformed  movement  of  our  thoughts. 
But  the  moment  we  left  the  drawing-room  the  thing 
was  clear,  though  not  the  less  marvellous  and  alarming. 
We  forgot  all  about  the  ship,  and  thought  only  of  our 
Connie.  So  much  does  the  near  hide  the  greater  that 
is  afar !  Connie  kept  on  calling,  and  her  voice  guided 
our  eyes. 

A  little  stair  led  immediately  from  this  floor  up  to  the 
bark-hut,  so  that  it  might  be  reached  without  passing 
through  the  bedroom.  The  door  at  the  top  of  it  was 
open.  The  door  that  led  from  Connie's  room  into  the 
bark-hut  was  likewise  open,  and  light  shone  through  it 
into  the  place — enough  to  show  a  figure  standing  by  the 
furthest  window  with  fice  pressed  against  the  glass. 
And  from  this  figure  came  the  cry,  "Papa!  papal 
Quick  !  quick  !     The  waves  will  knock  her  to  pieces  I* 

In  very  truth,  it  was  Connie  standing  there. 


CHAPTER   XXXVlir. 

THE   SHIPWRECK. 

HINGS  that  happen  altogether  have  to  be 
told  one  after  the  other.  Turner  and  I 
both  rushed  at  the  narrow  stair.  There 
was  not  room  for  more  than  one  upon  it. 
I  was  first,  but  stumbled  on  the  lowest  step  and  feU. 
Turner  put  his  foot  on  my  back,  jumped  over  me, 
sprang  up  the  stair,  and  when  I  reached  the  top  of  it 
after  him,  he  was  meeting  me  with  Connie  in  his  arms, 
carrying  her  back  to  her  room.  But  the  girl  kept 
crying — 

*'  Papa,  papa !  the  ship,  the  ship  ! " 
My  duty  woke  in  me.  Turner  could  attend  to  Con- 
nie far  better  than  I  could.  I  made  one  spring  to  the 
window.  The  moon  was  not  to  be  seen,  but  the  clouds 
were  thinner,  and  light  enough  was  soaking  through 
them  to  show  a  wave-tormented  mass  some  little  way 
out  in  the  bay;  and  in   that  one  moment  in  which  I 


534  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Stood  looking,  a  shriek  pierced  the  howling  of  the  win  1. 
cutting  through  it  hke  a  knife.  I  rushed  bare-heailt\l 
from  the  house.  When  or  how  the  resolve  was  born  in 
me  1  do  not  know,  but  I  flew  straight  to  the  sexton's, 
snatched  the  key  from  the  wall,  crj-ing  only  "  ship 
ashore !  '*  and  rushed  to  the  church. 

I  remember  my  hand  trembled  so  that  I  could  hardly 
get  the  key  into  the  lock.  I  made  myself  quieter, 
opened  the  door,  and  feeling  my  way  to  the  tower,  knelt 
before  tlie  keys  of  the  bell-hammers,  opened  the  chest,  and 
struck  them  wildly,  fiercely.  An  awful  jangling,  out  of 
tune  and  harsh,  burst  into  monstrous  being  in  the  storm- 
vexed  air.  Music  itself  was  untuned,  corrupted,  and  re  • 
turning  to  chaos.  I  struck  and  struck  at  the  keys.  I 
knew  nothing  of  their  normal  use.  Noise,  outcry,  reveilil 
was  all  I  meant. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  voices  and  footsteps.  From 
some  parts  of  the  village,  out  of  sight  of  the  shore,  men 
and  women  gathered  to  the  summons.  Through  the 
door  of  the  church,  which  I  had  left  open,  came  voices 
IT.  imrried  question.  "Ship  ashore!"  was  all  I  could 
answer,  for  what  was  to  be  done  I  was  helpless  to  think. 

I  wondered  that  so  few  appeared  at  the  cry  of  the  bells 
After  those  first  nobody  came  for  what  seemed  a  long 
time.  I  believe,  however,  I  was  beating  the  alarum  for 
only  a  few  minutes  altogether,  though  when  I  look  back 
upon  the  time  in  the  dark  church,  it  looks  like  half-an- 
hour  at  least  But  indeed  I  feel  so  confused  about  all 
the  doings  of  that  night  that  in  attempting  to  describe 
them  in  order,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  walkiiig  m  a  dream. 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  535 

Still,  from  comparing  mine  with  the  recollected  impres- 
sions of  others,  I  think  I  am  able  to  give  a  tolerably 
correct  result.  Most  of  the  incidents  seem  burnt  into 
my  memory  so  that  nothing  could  destroy  the  depth  of 
the  impression ;  but  the  order  in  which  they  took  place 
is  none  the  less  doubtful 

A  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

**Who  is  there]"  I  said,  for  it  was  far  too  dark  to 
know  any  one. 

"Percivale.  What  is  to  be  done?  The  coastguard 
is  away.  Nobody  seems  to  know  about  anything.  It  is 
of  no  use  to  go  on  ringing  more.  Everybody  is  out,  even 
t)  the  maid-servants.  Come  down  to  the  shore  and  you 
vill  see." 

"  But  is  there  not  the  life-boat  ?  ** 

**  Nobody  seems  to  know  anything  about  it,  except 
that  'it's  no  manner  of  use  to  go  trying  of  that  with 
such  a  sea  on.'" 

"  But  there  must  be  some  one  in  command  of  it,"  I 
said. 

"  Yes,**  returned  Percivale.  "  But  there  doesn't  seem 
to  be  one  of  the  crew  amongst  the  crowd.  All  the  sailor- 
like fellows  are  going  about  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets." 

**  Let  us  make  haste,  thejn,"  I  said  ;  "  perhaps  we  can 
find  out.  Are  you  sure  the  coastguard  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  life-boat  ?  ** 

"  I  believe  not  They  have  enough  to  do  with  their 
rockets." 

"  I  remember  now  that  Roxton  told  me  he  had  fai 


536  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 

more  confidence  in  his  rockets  than  in  anything  a  life* 
boat  could  do,  upon  this  coast  at  least." 

While  we  spoke,  we  came  to  the  bank  of  the  canal. 
This  we  had  to  cross,  in  order  to  reach  that  part  of  the 
shore  opposite  which  the  wreck  lay.  To  my  surprise, 
the  canal  itself  was  in  a  storm,  heaving  and  tossing  and 
dashing  over  its  banks. 

'*  Percivale  ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  the  gates  are  gone  I 
The  sea  has  torn  them  away." 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  so.  Would  God  I  could  get  half-a- 
dozen  men  to  help  me.  I  have  been  doing  what  I  could ; 
but  I  have  no  influence  amongst  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1"  1  asked.  "  What  could  you 
do  if  you  had  a  thousand  men  at  your  command? " 

He  made  me  no  answer  for  a  few  moments,  during 
which  we  were  hurrying  on  for  the  bridge  over  the  canal. 
Then  he  said — 

"  They  regard  me  only  as  a  meddling  stranger,  I  sup- 
pose, for  I  have  been  able  to  get  no  useful  answer.  They 
are  all  excited,  but  nobody  is  doing  anything." 

"  They  must  know  about  it  a  great  deal  better  than 
we,"  I  returned ;  *'  and  we  must  take  care  not  to  do  them 
the  injustice  of  supposing  they  are  not  ready  to  do  all 
that  can  be  done." 

Percivale  was  silent  yet  again. 

The  record  of  our  conversation  looks  as  quiet  on  the 
paper  as  if  we  had  been  talking  in  a  curtained  room,  but 
all  the  time  the  ocean  was  raving  in  my  very  ear,  and 
the  awful  tragedy  was  going  on  in  the  dark  behind  us. 
The  wind  was  almost  as  loud  as  ever,  but  the  rain  had 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  53) 


quite  ceased,  and  when  we  reached  the  bridge  the  moon 
shone  out  white,  as  if  aghast  at  what  she  had  at  length 
succeeded  in  pushing  the  clouds  aside  that  she  might 
see.  Awe  and  helplessness  oppressed  us.  Having 
crossed  the  canal,  we  turned  to  the  shore.  There  was 
little  of  it  left,  for  the  waves  had  rushed  up  almost  to 
the  village.  The  sand  and  the  roads,  every  garden  wall, 
every  window  that  looked  seaward,  was  crowded  with 
gazers.  But  it  was  a  wonderfully  quiet  crowd,  or  seemed 
so  at  least,  for  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  tlie  waves  filled 
the  whole  vault,  and  what  was  spoken  was  heard  only  in 
the  ear  to  which  it  was  spoken.  When  we  came  amongst 
them  we  heard  only  a  murmur  as  of  more  articulated  con* 
fusion.  One  turn,  and  we  saw  the  centre  of  strife  and 
anxiety — the  heart  of  the  storm  that  filled  heaven  and 
earth,  upon  which  all  the  blasts  and  the  billows  broke 
and  raved. 

Out  there  in  the  moonlight  lay  a  mass  of  something 
whose  place  was  discernible  by  the  flashing  of  the  waves 
as  they  burst  over  it.  She  was  far  above  low-water  mark 
— lay  nearer  the  village  by  a  furlong  than  the  spot  where 
we  had  taken  our  last  dinner  on  the  shore.  It  was 
strange  to  think  that  yesterday  the  spot  lay  bare  to 
human  feet,  where  now  so  many  men  and  women  were 
isolated  in  a  howling  waste  of  angry  waters ;  for  the  cry 
of  women  came  plainly  to  our  ears,  and  we  were  helpless 
to  save  them.  It  was  terrible  to  have  to  do  nothing, 
Percivale  went  about  hurriedly,  talking  to '  this  one  and 
that  one,  as  if  he  still  thought  something  might  be  done 
He  turned  to  me. 


$38  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"Do  try,  Mr  Walton,  and  find  out  for  me  where  the 
aptain  of  the  life-boat  is." 

I  turned  to  a  sailor-like  man  who  stood  at  my  elbow 
and  asked  him. 

-"  It's  no  use,  I  assure  you,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  No 
boat  could  live  in  such  a  sea.  It  would  be  throwing 
away  the  men's  lives." 

"Do  you  know  where  the  captain  lives  I"  Percivale 
asked. 

"If  I  did,  I  tell  you  it  is  of  no  use." 

"Are  you  the  captain  yourself?"  returned  Perci- 
vale. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  1 "  he  answered — surly  now. 
*'  I  know  my  own  business." 

The  same  moment  several  of  the  crowd  nearest  the 
edge  of  the  water  made  a  simultaneous  rush  into  the 
surf,  and  laid  hold  of  something,  which,  as  they  returned 
drawing  it  to  the  shore,  I  saw  to  be  a  human  form.  It 
was  the  body  of  a  woman — alive  or  dead  I  could  not 
tell.  I  could  just  see  the  long  hair  hanging  from  the 
head  which  itself  hung  backward  helplessly  as  they  bore 
her  up  the  bank.  I  saw  too  a  white  face,  and  1  can 
recall  no  more. 

"Run,  Percivale,"  I  said,  "and  fetch  Turner.  She 
may  not  be  dead  yet." 

"  I  can't,"  answered  Percivale.  "  You  had  better  go 
yourself,  Mr  Walton." 

He  spoke  hurriedly.  I  saw  he  must  have  some  rca- 
Hon  for  answering  me  so  abruptly.  He  was  talking  to  a 
jroung  fellow  whom  I  recog\.ized  as  one  of  the  most  dis- 


-THE    SHIPWRECK.  539 


solute  in  the  village  ;  and  just  as  I  turaeJ  to  go,  they 
walked  away  together. 

I  sped  home  as  fast  as  I  could.  It  was  easier  to  get 
along  now  that  the  moon  shone.  I  found  that  Turner 
had  given  Connie  a  composing  drajght,  and  that  he  had 
good  hopes  she  would  at  least  be  nothing  the  worse  for 
the  marvellous  result  of  her  excitement.  She  was  asleep 
exhausted,  and  her  mother  was  watching  by  her  side. 
It  seemed  strange  that  she  could  sleep,  but  Turner  said 
it  was  the  safest  reaction — partly,  however,  occasioned 
by  what  he  had  given  her.  In  her  sleep  she  kept  on 
talking  about  the  ship. 

We  hurried  back  to  see  if  anything  could  be  done  for 
the  woman.  As  we  went  up  the  side  of  the  canal,  we 
perceived  a  dark  body  meeting  us.  The  clouds  had 
again  obscured,  though  not  quite  hidden  the  moon,  and 
we  could  not  at  first  make  out  what  it  was.  When  we 
came  nearer  it  showed  itself  a  body  of  men  hauling 
something  along.  Yes,  it  was  the  life-boat,  afloat  on  the 
troubled  waves  of  the  canal,  each  man  seated  in  his  own 
place,  his  hands  quiet  upon  his  oar,  his  cork  jacket 
braced  about  him,  his  feet  out  before  him,  ready  to  pull 
the  moment  they  should  pass  beyond  the  broken  gates 
of  the  lock  out  on  the  awful  tossing  of  waves.  They 
sat  very  silent,  and  the  men  on  the  path  towed  them 
swiftly  along.  The  moon  uncovered  her  face  for  4 
moment,  and  shone  upon  the  faces  of  two  of  the  rowers. 

"  Percivale  !  Joe  !  "  I  cried. 

"All  right,  sir!"  said  Joe. 

♦*  Does  your  wife  know  of  it,  Joe  I"  I  almost  gasp«di 


540  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  To  be  sure,"  answered  Joe.  **  It 's  the  first  chance 
I  Ve  had  of  returning  thanks  for  her.  Please  God,  I 
shall  see  her  again  to-night." 

"  That 's  good,  Joe.  Trust  in  God,  my  men,  whether 
you  sink  or  swim." 

**  Ay,  ay,  sir,*'  they  answered  as  one  man. 

"  This  is  your  doing,  Percivale,"  I  said,  turning  and 
walking  alongside  of  the  boat  for  a  little  way. 

"  It 's  more  Jim  Allen's,"  said  Percivale.  "  If  I  hadn't 
got  a  hold  of  him  I  couldn't  have  done  anything.** 

**  God  bless  you,  Jim  Allen,**  I  said.  "  You  '11  be  a 
better  man  after  this,  I  think.** 

"  Donnow,  sir,"  returned  Jim,  cheerily.  "  It 's  hardei 
work  than  pulling  an  oar." 

The  captain  himself  was  on  board.  Percivale  having 
persuaded  Jim  Allen,  the  two  had  gone  about  in  the 
crowd  seeking  proselytes.  In  a  wonderfully  short  space 
they  had  found  almost  all  the  crew,  each  fresh  one  pick- 
ing up  another  or  more,  till  at  length  the  captain,  pro- 
testing against  the  folly  of  it,  gave  in,  and  once  having 
yielded,  was,  like  a  true  Englishman,  as  much  in  earnest 
as  any  of  them.  The  places  of  two  who  were  missing 
were  supplied  by  Percivale  and  Joe,  the  latter  of  whom 
would  listen  to  no  remonstrance. 

"  I  Vc  nothing  to  lose,"  Percivale  had  said.  "  You 
have  a  young  wife,  Joe." 

"  1  've  everything  to  win,**  Joe  had  returned.  **  The 
only  thing  that  makes  me  feel  a  bit  faint-hearted  over  it^ 
is  that  l*m  afraid  it*s  not  my  duty  that  drives  me  to  it, 
but  the  praise  of  men,  leastways  of  a  woman.      What 


*'  '  '        on 


»  r  >    -,**- 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  541 

would  Aggy  think  of  me  if  I  was  to  let  them  drown  out 
tnere  and  go  to  my  bed  and  sleep  ?     I  must  go." 

"  Very  well,  Joe,"  returned  Percivale.  **  I  daresay 
you  are  right.     You  can  row,  of  course  T' 

"  I  can  row  hard,  and  do  as  I  'm  told,"  said  Joa 

**  All  right,"  said  Percivale.     "  Come  along." 

This  I  heard  afterwards.  We  were  now  hurrying 
against  the  wind  towards  the  mouth  of  the  canal,  some 
twenty  men  hauling  on  the  tow-rope.  The  critical  mo- 
ment would  be  in  the  clearing  of  the  gates,  I  thought, 
some  parts  of  which  might  remain  swinging.  But  they 
encountered  no  difficulty  there,  as  I  heard  afterwards. 
For  I  remembered  that  this  was  not  my  post,  and  turned 
again  to  follow  the  doctor. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  men  !"  I  said,  and  left  them. 

They  gave  a  great  hurrah,  and  sped  on  to  meet  their 
fate.  I  found  Turner  in  the  little  public-house  whither 
ihey  had  carried  the  body.    The  woman  was  quite  dead. 

**  I  fear  it  is  an  emigrant  vessel,"  he  said. 

*'  Why  do  you  think  sol"  I  asked,  in  some  consterna- 
tion. 

"  Come  and  look  at  the  body,"  he  said. 

It  was  that  of  a  woman  about  twenty,  tall  and  finely 
formed.  The  face  was  very  handsome,  but  it  did  not 
need  the  evidence  of  the  hands  to  prove  that  she  was 
one  of  our  sisters  who  have  to  labour  for  their  bread. 

**  What  should  such  a  girl  be  doing  on  board  ship  but 
going  out  to  America  or  Australia  1 — to  her  lover,  per- 
haps," said  Turner.  "  You  see  she  has  a  locket  on  her 
neck.     I  hope  nobody  will  dare  to  take  it  off.     Some  of 


54*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 

these  people  are  not  far  derived  from  those  who  thought 
a  wreck  a  Godsend." 

A  sound  of  many  feet  was  at  the  door  just  as  we 
turned  to  leave  the  house.  They  were  bringing  anotlier 
body — that  of  an  elderly  woman — dead,  quite  dead. 
Turner  had  ceased  examining  her,  and  we  were  going 
out  together,  when,  through  all  the  tumult  of  the  wind 
and  waves,  a  fierce  hiss,  vindictive,  wratliful,  tore  the 
air  over  our  heads.  Far  up,  seawards,  something  like  a 
fiery  snake  shot  from  the  high  ground  on  the  right  side 
of  the  bay,  over  the  vessel,  and  into  the  water  beyond  it. 

"  Thank  God  !  that 's  the  coastguard,"  I  cried. 

We  rushed  through  the  village,  and  up  on  the  heights, 
where  they  had  planted  their  apparatus.  A  little  crowd 
surrounded  them.  How  dismal  the  sea  looked  in  the 
struggling  moonlight !  I  felt  as  if  I  were  wandering  in 
the  mazes  of  an  evil  dream.  But  when  I  approached 
the  cliff,  and  saw  down  below  the  great  mass  of  the 
vessel's  hulk,  with  the  waves  breaking  every  moment 
upon  her  side,  I  felt  the  reality  awful  indeed.  Now 
iind  then  there  would  come  a  kind  of  lull  in  the  wild 
sequence  of  rolling  waters,  and  then  I  fancied  for  a 
moment  that  I  saw  how  she  rocked  on  the  bottom. 
Her  masts  had  all  gone  by  the  board,  and  a  perfect 
chaos  of  cordage  floated  and  swung  in  the  waves  that 
broke  over  her.  But  her  bowsprit  remained  entire,  and 
shot  out  into  the  foamy  dark,  crowded  with  human 
beings.  The  first  rocket  had  missed.  They  were  pre- 
paring to  fire  another.  Roxton  stood  with  his  telescope 
in  his  hand,  ready  to  watch  the  result 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  543 

"  This  is  a  terrible  job,  sir,"  he  said  when  I  ap- 
proached him.     "  I  doubt  if  we  shall  save  one  of  them." 

"  There  's  the  life-boat  I  '*  I  cried,  as  a  dark  spot  ap- 
peared on  the  waters  approaching  the  vessel  from  the 
other  side. 

"  The  life-boat ! "  he  returned  with  contempt.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  they  've  got  her  out !  She  '11  only 
add  to  the  mischief.     We  '11  have  to  save  her  too." 

She  was  still  some  way  from  the  vessel,  and  in  com- 
paratively smooth  water.  But  between  her  and  the  hull 
the  sea  raved  in  madness.  The  billows  rode  over  each 
other,  in  pursuit,  as  it  seemed,  of  some  invisible  prey. 
Another  hiss,  as  of  concentrated  hatred,  and  the  second 
rocket  was  shooting  its  parabola  through  the  dusky 
air.  Roxton  raised  his  telescope  to  his  eye  the  same 
moment. 

"  Over  her  stam  I  '*  he  cried.  "  There  *s  a  fellow  get- 
ting down  from  the  cat-head  to  run  aft. — Stop,  stop  !  *• 
he  shouted  involuntarily.  "  There  's  an  awful  wave  on 
your  quarter." 

His  voice  was  swallowed  in  the  roaring  cf  the  storm. 
I  fancied  I  could  distinguish  a  dark  something  shoot 
from  the  bows  towards  the  stern.  But  the  huge  wave 
fell  upon  the  wreck.  The  same  moment  Roxton  ex- 
claimed— so  coolly  as  to  amaze  me,  forgetting  how  men 
must  come  to  regard  familiar  things  without  discom- 
posure— 

"  He 's  gone  !  I  said  so.  The  next  '11  have  bettei 
luck,  I  hope." 

That  man  came  ashore  alive,  though. 


544  THE    SEABOARD     PARISH. 

All  were  forward  of  the  foremast.  The  bowspnt, 
when  I  looked  through  Roxton*s  telescope,  was  shape- 
less as  with  a  swarm  of  bees.  Now  and  then  a  single 
shriek  rose  upon  the  wild  air.  But  now  my  att-ention 
was  fixed  on  the  life-boat.  She  had  got  into  the  wildest 
of  the  broken  water.  At  one  moment  she  was  down  in 
a  huge  cleft,  the  next  balanced  like  a  beam  on  the  knife 
edge  of  a  wave,  tossed  about  hither  and  thither  as  if  the 
waves  delighted  in  mocking  the  rudder.  But  hitherto 
she  had  shipped  no  water.  I  am  here  drawing  upon  the 
information  I  have  since  received  ;  but  I  did  see  how  a 
huge  wave,  following  close  upon  the  back  of  that  on 
which  she  floated,  rushed,  towered  up  over  her,  toppled, 
and  fell  upon  the  life-boat  with  tons  of  water  ;  the  moon 
was  shining  brightly  enough  to  show  this  with  tolerable 
distinctness.  The  boat  vanished.  The  next  moment, 
there  she  was,  floating  helplessly  about  like  a  living 
thing  stunned  by  the  blow  of  the  falling  wave.  The 
struggle  was  over.  As  far  as  I  could  see,  every  man 
was  in  his  place ;  but  the  boat  drifted  away  before  the 
storm  shorewards,  and  the  men  let  her  drift.  Weie 
they  all  killed  as  they  sat  1  I  thought  of  my  Wynnie, 
and  turned  to  Roxton. 

"  That  wave  has  done  for  them,**  he  said.  "  I  told 
you  it  was  no  use.     There  they  go." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ? "  I  asked.  "  The  men  are 
sitting  every  man  in  his  place." 

"I  think  so,"  he  answered.  "Two  were  swept  ovciv 
board,  but  they  caught  the  ropes  and  got  in  again.  But 
don't  you  see  they  have  no  oars  1 " 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  545 


That  wave  had  broken  every  one  of  them  off  at  the 
rowlocks,  and  now  they  were  as  helpless  as  a  sponge. 

I  turAed  and  ran.  Before  I  reached  the  brow  of  the 
hill  another  rocket  was  fired  and  fell  wide  shorewards, 
pdrtly  because  the  wind  blew  with  fresh  fury  at  the  very 
moment  I  heard  Roxton  say,  "She's  breaking  up. 
It  *s  no  use.  That  last  did  for  her ; "  but  I  hurried  off 
for  the  other  side  of  the  bay,  to  see  what  became  of  the 
life-boat.  I  heard  a  great  cry  from  the  vessel  as  I 
reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  turned  for  a  parting 
glance.  The  dark  mass  had  vanished,  and  the  waves 
were  rushing  at  will  over  the  space.  When  I  got  to  the 
shore  the  crowd  was  less.  Many  were  running,  like  my- 
self, towards  the  other  side,  anxious  about  the  life-boat 
I  hastened  after  them ;  for  Percivale  and  Joe  filled  my 
heart 

They  led  the  way  to  the  little  beach  in  front  of  the 
parsonage.  It  would  be  well  for  the  crew  if  they  were 
driven  ashore  there,  for  it  was  the  only  spot  where  they 
could  escape  being  dashed  on  rocks. 

There  was  a  crowd  before  the  garden -wall,  a  bustle, 
and  great  confusion  of  speech.  The  people,  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls,  were  all  gathered  about  the  crew 
of  the  life-boat,  which  already  lay,  as  if  it  knew  of 
nothing  but  repose,  on  the  grass  within. 

"  Percivale ! "  I  cried,  making  my  way  through  the 
crowd. 

There  vvas  no  answer. 

"Joe  Harper!"   I  cried  a;^ain,  searching  with   eager 

eyes  amongct  the  crew,  to  whom  everybody  was  talking 

2  u 


54^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Still  there  was  no  answer;  and  from  the  disjoh-ted 
phrases  I  heard,  I  could  gather  nothing.  All  at  once  I 
saw  Wynnie  looking  over  the  wall,  despair  in  her  face, 
her  wide  eyes  searching  wildly  through  the  crowd.  I 
could  not  look  at  her  till  I  knew  the  worst.  The  cap- 
tain was  talking  to  old  Coombes.  I  went  up  to  him. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  gave  me  his  attention. 

"  Where  is  Mr  Percivale  ? "  I  asked,  with  all  the  calm* 
ness  I  could  assume. 

He  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  drew  me  out  of  the 
crowd,  nearer  to  the  waves,  and  a  little  nearer  to  the 
mouth  of  the  canal.  The  tide  had  fallen  considerably, 
else  there  would  not  have  been  the  standing-room,  nar- 
row as  it  was,  which  the  people  now  occupied.  He 
pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  Castle-rock. 

"  If  you  mean  the  stranger  gentleman  " 

•*  And  Joe  Harper,  the  blacksmith,'  I  interposed. 

"They're  there,  sir." 

"You  don't  mean  those  two — ^just  those  two — are 
drowned ?"  I  said. 

**  No,  sir  ;  I  don't  say  that ;  but  God  knows  they  have 
little  chance." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  God  might  know  they 
were  not  in  the  smallest  danger.  But  I  only  begged  him 
to  tell  me  where  they  were. 

"  Do  you  see  that  schooner  there,  just  between  yoa 
•i.d  the  Castle-rock  r' 

"No."  I  answered;  "I  can  see  nothing.  Stay.  I 
fancy  1  can.  But  I  am  always  ready  to  fancy  I  see  a 
thing  when  I  an>  told  it  is  there.     I  can't  say  I  see  it" 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  1^47 


**  I  can,  though.  The  gentleman  yO^u  mean,  and  Joe 
Harper  too,  are,  I  believe,  on  board  of  that  schooner.** 

"  Is  she  aground  1 " 

**  Oh  dear  no,  sir.  She 's  a  light  craft,  and  can  swim 
there  well  enough.  If  she  d  been  aground,  she  *d  ha' 
been  ashore  in  pieces  hours  ago.  But  whether  she  '11 
ride  it  out,  God  only  knows,  as  I  said  afore." 

"  How  ever  did  they  get  aboard  of  her  1  I  never  saw 
her  from  the  heights  opposite." 

"  You  were  all  taken  up  with  the  ship  ashore,  you  see, 
sir.  And  she  don*t  make  much  show  in  this  light.  Bui 
there  she  is,  and  they  're  aboard  of  her.  And  this  is  how 
it  was." 

He  went  on  to  give  me  his  part  of  the  story ;  but  ] 
will  now  give  the  whole  of  it  myself,  as  I  have  gathered 
and  pieced  it  together. 

Two  men  had  been  swept  overboard,  as  Roxton  said 
—one  of  them  was  Percivale — but  they  had  both  got  on 
boaid  again,  to  drift,  oarless,  with  the  rest — now  in  a 
a  windless  valley — now  aloft  on  a  tempest-swept  hill 
of  water — away  towards  a  goal  they  knew  not,  neither 
had  chosen,  and  which  yet  they  could  by  no  means 
avoid. 

A  little  out  of  the  full  force  of  the  current,  and  not 
far  from  the  channel  of  the  small  stream,  which,  when 
the  tide  was  out,  flowed  across  the  sands  nearly  from  the 
canal-gates  to  the  Castle-rock,  lay  a  little  schooner 
belonging  to  a  neighbouring  port,  Boscastle,  I  think, 
which,  caught  in  the  storm,  had  been  driven  into  the 
bay  when  it  was  almost  dark,  some  considerable  time 


548  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

before  the  great  ship.  The  master,  however,  knew  the 
ground  well  The  current  carried  him  a  little  out  of  the 
wind,  and  would  have  thrown  him  upon  the  rocks  next, 
but  he  managed  to  drop  anchor  just  in  time,  and  the 
cable  held;  and  there  the  little  schooner  hung  in  the 
skirts  of  the  storm,  with  the  jagged  teeth  of  the  rocks 
within  an  arrow-flight  In  the  excitement  of  the  great 
wreck,  no  one  had  observed  the  danger  of  the  little 
coasting  bird.  If  the  cable  held  till  the  tide  went  down, 
and  the  anchor  did  not  drag,  she  would  be  safe;  if  not, 
she  must  be  dashed  to  pieces. 

In  the  schooner  were  two  men  and  a  boy :  two  men 
had  been  washed  overboard  an  hour  or  so  before  they 
reached  the  bay.  When  they  had  dropped  their  anchor, 
they  lay  down  exhausted  on  the  deck.  Indeed  they 
were  so  worn  out  that  they  had  been  unable  to  drop 
\heir  sheet-anchor,  and  were  holding  on  only  by  their 
best  bower.  Had  they  not  been  a  good  deal  out  of  the 
wind,  this  would  have  been  useless.  Even  if  it  held  she 
was  in  danger  of  having  her  bottom  stove  in  by  bumping 
against  the  sands  as  the  tide  went  out.  But  that  they 
had  not  to  think  of  yet.  The  moment  they  lay  down 
they  fell  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  storm.  While  they 
slept  it  increased  in  violence. 

Suddenly  one  of  them  awoke,  and  thought  he  saw  a 
vision  of  angels.  For  over  his  head  faces  looked  down 
upon  him  from  the  air — that  is,  from  the  top  of  a  great 
wave.  The  same  moment  he  heard  a  voice,  two  of  the 
angels  dropped  on  the  deck  beside  him,  and  the  rest 
vanished.     Those  angels  were  Percivale  and  Joe.     And 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  549 


angels  they  were,  for  they  came  just  in  time,  as  all  angels 
do— never  a  moment  too  soon  or  a  moment  too  late : 
the  schooner  was  dragging  her  anchor.  This  was  soon 
plain  even  to  the  less  experienced  eyes  of  the  said 
angels. 

But  it  did  not  take  them  many  minutes  now  to  drop 
their  strongest  anchor,  and  they  were  soon  riding  in 
perfect  safety  for  some  time  to  come. 

One  of  the  two  men  was  the  son  of  old  Coombes, 
the  sexton,  who  was  engaged  to  marry  the  girl  I  have 
spoken  of  in  the  end  of  the  twenty-first  chapter. 

Percivale's  account  of  the  matter,  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  was,  that,  as  they  drifted  helplessly  along,  he 
suddenly  saw  from  the  top  of  a  huge  wave,  the  little 
vessel  below  him.  They  were,  in  fact,  almost  upon  the 
rigging.  The  wave  on  which  they  rode  swept  the  quai'- 
ter-deck  of  the  schooner. 

Percivale  says  the  captain  of  the  life-boat  called  out 
"  Aboard ! "  The  captain  said  he  remembered  nothing 
of  the  sort  j  if  he  did,  he  must  have  meant  it  for  the 
men  on  the  schooner — to  get  on  board  the  hfe-boat. 
Percivale,  however,  who  had  a  most  chivalrous — ought 
I  not  to  say  Christian? — notion  of  obedience,  fancy- 
ing the  captain  meant  them  to  board  the  schooner, 
sprang  at  her  fore  shrouds.  Thereupon,  the  wave 
tweeping  them  along  the  schooner's  side,  Joe  sprang 
on  the  main-shrouds;  and  they  dropped  on  the  deck 
together. 

But  although  my  reader  is  at  ease  about  their  fate,  w€ 
who  were  in  the  affair  were  anything  but  easy  at  the 


550  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

time  corresponding  to  this  point  of  the  narrative.  It 
was  a  terrible  night  we  passed  through. 

When  I  returned,  which  was  almost  instantly,  for  I 
could  do  nothing  by  staring  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
schooner,  I  found  that  the  crowd  was  nearly  gone.  One 
little  group  alone  remained  behind,  the  centre  of  which 
was  a  woman.  Wynnie  had  disappeared.  The  woman 
who  remained  behind  was  Agnes  Harper. 

The  moon  shone  out  clear  as  I  approached  the  groups 
Indeed  the  clouds  were  breaking  up,  and  drifting  away 
off  the  heavens.  The  storm  had  raved  out  its  business, 
and  was  departing  into  the  past 

"  Agnes,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  and  looked  up  as  if  waiting 
for  a  command.  There  was  no  colour  in  her  cheeks  or 
in  her  lips — at  least  it  seemed  so  in  the  moonlight — only 
in  her  eyes.  But  she  was  perfectly  calm.  She  was  lean- 
ing against  the  low  wall,  with  her  hands  clasped,  but 
hanging  quietly  down  before  her. 

"  The  storm  is  breaking  up,  Agnes,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  still  tone. 
Then,  after  just  a  moment's  pause,  she  spoke  out  of  her 
heart. 

*•  Joe's  at  his  duty,  sirl" 

1  have  given  the  utterance  a  point  of  interrogattion : 
whether  she  meant  that  point  I  am  not  quite  sure. 

"  Indubitably,"  I  returned.  "  I  have  such  faith  in  Joe, 
that  I  should  be  sure  of  that  in  any  case.  At  all  events, 
he's  not  taking  care  of  his  own  life.  And  if  one  is  to 
go  wrong,  I  would  ten  thousand  times  rathe^f  err  on  thai 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  55I 


side.  But  I  am  sure  Joe  has  been  doing  right,  and 
nothing  else." 

**  Then  there's  nothing  to  be  said,  sir — is  there  1"  she 
returned,  with  a  sigh  that  sounded  as  of  rehef. 

I  presume  some  of  the  surrounding  condolers  had 
been  giving  her  Job's  comfort  by  blaming  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Agnes,  what  the  Lord  said  to  his 
mother  when  she  reproached  him  with  having  left  her 
and  his  father?" 

"  I  can't  remember  anything  at  this  moment,  sir,"  was 
her  touching  answer. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you.  He  said,  *  Why  did  you  look 
for  me  1  Didn't  you  know  that  I  must  be  about  some- 
thing my  Father  had  given  me  to  do  V  Now  Joe  was 
and  is  about  his  Father's  business,  and  you  must  not  be 
anxious  about  him.  There  could  be  no  better  reason  for 
not  being  anxious." 

Agnes  was  a  very  quiet  woman :  when  without  a  word 
she  took  my  hand  and  kissed  it,  I  felt  what  a  depth  there 
was  in  the  feeling  she  could  not  utter.  I  did  not  with- 
draw my  hand,  for  I  knew  that  would  be  to  rebuke  her 
love  for  Joe. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  wait  ?  **  I  said  indefinitely. 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir.  I  must  go  to  my  mother.  God 
will  look  after  Joe  :  won't  he,  sir?" 

"As  sure  as  there  is  a  God,  Agnes,"  I  said ;  and  she 
went  nway  without  another  word. 

I  put  my  hand  on  the  top  of  the  wall  and  jumped 
over.      I  started   back  with  terror^  for    I  had  ahiiost 


55S  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

alighted  on  the  body  of  a  woman  lying  there.  The 
first  insane  suggestion  was  that  it  had  been  cast  ashore , 
but  the  next  moment  I  knew  that  it  was  my  own 
Wynnie. 

She  had  not  even  fainted.  She  was  lying  with  her 
handkerchief  stuffed  into  her  mouth  to  keep  her  from 
screaming.  When  I  uttered  her  name,  she  rose,  and 
without  looking  at  me,  walked  away  towards  the  house. 
I  followed.  She  went  straight  to  her  own  room  and  shut 
the  door.  I  went  to  find  her  mother.  She  was  with 
(Bonnie,  who  was  now  awake,  lying  pale  and  frightened. 
]  told  Ethelwyn  that  Percivale  and  Joe  were  on  board 
the  little  schooner,  which  was  holding  on  by  her 
anchor,  that  Wynnie  was  in  terror  about  Percivale,  that 
I  had  found  her  lying  on  the  wet  grass,  and  that  she 
must  get  her  into  a  warm  bath  and  to  bed.  We  went 
together  to  her  room. 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  her 
1  lands  pressed  against  her  temples. 

"  Wynnie,"  I  said,  "  our  friends  are  not  drowned.  I 
think  you  will  see  them  quite  safe  in  the  morning.  Pray 
to  God  for  them." 

She  did  not  hear  a  word. 

"  Leave  her  with  me,"  said  Ethelwyn,  proceeding  to 
undress  her,  "and  tell  nurse  to  bring  up  the  large 
bath.  There  is  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  boiler:  I 
gave  orders  to  that  effect,  not  knowing  what  might 
happen." 

Wynnie  shuddered  as  her  mother  said  this;  but  I 
waited  no  longer,  for  when  Ethelwyn  spoke,  every  one 


THF    SHIPWRECK.  553 


felt  her  authority.  I  obeyed  her,  and  then  went  to 
Connie's  room. 

**  Do  you  mind  being  left  alone  a  little  while  I "  I  asked 
her. 

"  No,  papa.     Only are  they  all  drowned  1 "  she  said 

with  a  shudder. 

•*  I  hope  not,  ray  dear.  But  be  sure  of  the  mercy  of 
(jod  v/hatever  you  fear.  You  must  rest  in  him,  my  love, 
for  he  is  Life,  and  will  conquer  death  both  in  the  soul 
and  in  the  bod)'." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  papa." 

"  I  know  that,  my  dear.  But  God  is  thinking  of  you 
and  every  creature  that  he  has  made.  And  for  our  sakes 
\  ou  must  be  quiet  in  heart,  that  you  may  get  better,  and 
be  able  to  help  us." 

"  I  will  try,  papa,"  she  said ;  and,  turning  slowly  on 
her  side,  she  lay  quite  still. 

Dora  and  the  boys  were  all  fast  asleep,  for  it  was  very 
late.     I  cannot,  however,  say  what  hour  it  was. 

Telling  nurse  to  be  on  the  watch  because  Connie 
was  alone,  I  went  again  to  the  beach.  I  called  firsts 
however,  to  inquire  after  Agnes.  I  found  her  quite 
composed,  sitting  with  her  parents  by  the  fire,  none  of 
them  doing  anything,  scarcely  speaking,  only  listening 
intently  to  the  sounds  of  the  storm  now  beginning 
to  die  away. 

I  next  went  to  the  place  where  I  had  left  Turner. 
Five  bodies  lay  there,  and  he  was  busy  with  a  sixth. 
The  surgeon  of  the  place  was  with  him.  and  they  quite 
expected  to  recover  this  man. 


5i4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


I  then  went  down  to  the  sands.  An  officer  of  the 
revenue  was  taking  charge  of  all  that  came  ashore — 
clie.sts  and  bales,  and  everything.  For  a  week  the  sea 
went  on  casting  out  the  fragments  of  that  which  she  had 
destroyed.  I  have  heard  that,  for  years  after,  the  shift- 
ing of  the  sands  would  now  and  then  discover  things 
buried  that  night  by  the  waves. 

All  the  next  day  the  bodies  kept  coming  ashore,  some 
peaceful  as  in  sleep;  others  broken  and  mutilated.  Many 
were  cast  upon  other  parts  of  the  coast.  Some  four  or 
five  only,  all  men,  were  recovered.  It  was  strange  to  me 
how  I  got  used  to  it  The  first  horror  over,  the  cry  that 
yet  another  body  had  come,  awoke  only  a  gentle  pity, 
no  more  dismay  or  shuddering.  But  finding  1  could  be 
of  no  use,  I  did  not  wait  longer  than  just  till  the  morn- 
ing began  to  dawn  with  a  pale  ghastly  light  over  the 
seething  raging  sea — for  the  sea  raged  on,  although  the 
wind  had  gone  down.  There  were  many  strong  men 
about,  with  two  surgeons,  and  all  the  coastguard,  who 
were  well  accustomed  to  similar  though  not  such  exten- 
sive destruction  ;  the  houses  along  the  shore  were  at  the 
disposal  of  any  one  who  wanted  aid ;  the  parsonage  was 
at  some  distance ;  and  I  confess  that  when  I  thought  oi 
the  state  of  my  daughters,  as  well  as  remembered  former 
influences  upon  my  wife,  I  was  very  glad  to  think  there 
was  no  necessity  for  carrying  thither  any  of  those  whom 
the  waves  cast  on  the  shore. 

When  I  reached  home,  and  found  Wynnie  quieter, 
and  Connie  again  asleep,  I  walked  out  along  our  own 
downs,    till    I    came    whence    I    could    see    the    little 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  555 


schooner  still  safe  at  anchor.  From  her  position  I 
concluded,  correctly  as  I  found  afterwards,  that  they 
had  let  out  her  cable  far  enough  to  allow  her  to  reach 
the  bed  of  the  little  stream,  where  the  tide  would  leave 
her  more  gently.  She  was  clearly  out  of  all  danger 
now,  and  if  Percivale  and  Joe  had  got  safe  on  board  of 
her,  we  might  confidently  expect  to  see  them  before 
many  hours  were  past  I  went  home  with  the  good 
news. 

For  a  few  moments  I  doubted  whether  I  should  tell 
Wynnie,  for  I  could  ;jot  know  with  any  certainty  that 
Percivale  was  in  the  schooner.  But  presently  I  recalled 
former  conclusions  to  the  effect  that  we  have  no  right  to 
modify  God's  facts  for  fear  of  what  may  be  to  come.  A 
little  hope  founded  on  a  present  appearance,  even  if 
that  hope  should  never  be  realized,  may  be  the  very 
means  of  enabling  a  soul  to  bear  the  weight  of  a  sorrow 
past  the  point  at  which  it  would  otherwise  break  down. 
I  would  therefore  tell  Wynnie,  and  let  her  share  my  ex- 
pectation of  deliverance. 

I  think  she  had  been  half-asleep,  for  when  I  entered 
her  room,  she  started  up  in  a  sitting  posture,  looking  wild, 
and  putting  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"I  have  brought  you  good  news,  Wynnie,"  I  said. 
**I  have  been  out  on  the  downs,  and  there  is  light 
enough  now  to  see  that  the  little  schooner  is  quite 
safe.' 

"What  schooner?"  she  asked  listlessly,  and  lay  down 
again,  her  eyes  still  staring  awfully  unappeased. 

**  Why  ihe  schooner  they  say  Percivale  got  on  hoard." 


$$6  THB    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"  Pie  isn't  drowned  then  !"  she  cried  with  a  choking 
voice,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears 
and  sobs. 

*'  Wynnie,"  I  said,  "  look  what  your  faithlessness  brings 
upon  you.  Everybody  but  you  has  known  all  night  that 
Percivale  and  Joe  Harper  are  probably  quite  safe.  Thev 
may  be  ashore  in  a  couple  of  hours." 

**  But  you  don't  know  it     He  may  be  drowned  yet." 

**  Of  course  there  is  room  for  doubt — but  none  for 
despair.  See  what  a  poor  helpless  creature  hopelessness 
makes  you." 

*'  But  how  can  I  help  it,  papa  ? "  she  asked  piteously. 
*•  I  am  made  so." 

But  as  she  spoke,  the  dawn  was  clear  upon  the  height 
of  her  forehead. 

"  You  are  not  made  yet,  as  I  am  always  telling  you. 
And  God  has  ordained  that  you  shall  have  a  hand  in 
your  own  making.  You  have  to  consent,  to  desire  that 
what  you  know  for  a  fault  shall  be  set  right  by  his  loving 
will  and  spirit" 

"  I  don't  know  God,  papa.** 

**  Ah,  my  dear !  that  is  where  it  all  lies.  You  do  not 
know  him,  or  you  would  never  be  without  hope.** 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  to  know  him  V*  she  asked,  rising 
on  her  elbow. 

The  saving  power  of  hope  was  already  working  in  her. 
She  was  once  more  turning  her  face  towards  the  Life. 

**Read  as  you  have  never  read  before  about  Christ 
Jesus,  my  love.  Read  with  the  express  object  of  finding 
out  what  God  is  like,  that  you  may  know  him,  and  may 


THE    SHIPWRECK.  557 

trust  him.  And  now  give  yourself  to  him,  and  he  will 
give  you  sleep.*' 

"  What  are  we  to  do/*  I  said  to  my  wife,  "  if  Percivale 
continue  silent?  For  even  if  he  be  in  love  with  her,  T 
doubt  if  he  will  speak." 

**  We  must  leave  all  that,  Harry,"  she  answered. 

She  was  turning  on  myself  the  counsel  I  had  been 
giving  Wynnie.  It  is  strange  how  easily  we  can  tell  oui 
brother  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  yet,  when  the  case 
comes  to  be  our  own,  do  precisely  as  we  had  rebuked 
iusa  for  doin?.    I  lay  down  and  fell  fast  asleep^ 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   FUNERAL. 

|T  was  a  lovely  morning  when  I  woke  once 
more.  The  sun  was  flashing  back  from  the 
sea,  which  was  still  tossing,  but  no  longer 
furiously,  only  as  if  it  wanted  to  turn  itself 
every  way  to  flash  the  sunlight  about  The  madness  of 
the  night  was  over  and  gone  ;  the  light  was  abroad,  and 
the  world  was  rejoicing.  When  I  reached  the  drawing- 
room — which  afforded  the  best  outlook  over  the  sliore, 
there  was  the  schooner  lying  dry  on  the  sands,  her  two 
cables  and  anchors  stretching  out  yards  behind  her.  But- 
halfway  between  the  two  sides  of  the  bay  rose  a  mass 
of  something  shapeless,  drifted  over  with  sand.  It  was 
all  that  remained  together  of  the  great  ship  that  had  the 
day  before  swept  over  the  waters  Hke  a  live  thing  with 
wings — of  all  the  works  of  man's  hands  the  nearest  to 
the  shape  and  sign  of  hfe.  The  wind  had  ceased  alto 
gether,  only  now  and  then  a  little  breeze  arose  which 


THE    FUNERAL.  559 


murmured  **  I  am  very  sorry,"  and  lay  down  again.  And 
I  knew  that  in  the  houses  on  the  shore  dead  men  and 
women  were  lying. 

I  went  down  to  the  dining-room.  The  three  children 
were  busy  at  their  breakfast,  but  neither  wife,  daughter, 
nor  visitor  had  yet  appeared.  I  made  a  hurried  meal, 
and  was  just  rising  to  go  and  inquire  further  into  the 
events  of  the  night,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked 
Percivale,  looking  very  solemn,  but  in  perfect  health  and 
well-being.     I  grasped  his  hand  warmly. 

"Thank  God,"  I  said,  "that  you  are  returned  to  us, 
Percivale." 

"I  doubt  if  that  is  much  to  give  thanks  for,"  he 
mid. 

"  We  are  the  judges  of  that,"  I  rejoined.  **  Tell  me 
all  about  it" 

While  he  was  narrating  the  events  I  have  already  com- 
municated, Wynnie  entered.  She  started,  turned  pale 
and  then  very  red,  and  for  a  moment  hesitated  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Here  is  another  to  rejoice  at  your  safety,  Percivale," 
I  said. 

Thereupon  he  stepped  forward  to  meet  her,  and  she 
gave  him  her  hand  with  an  emotion  so  evident  that  I 
felt  a  little  distressed — why  I  could  not  easily  have  told, 
for  she  looked  most  charming  in  the  act, — more  lovely 
tl:an  I  had  ever  seen  her.  Her  beauty  was  unconsciously 
praising  God,  and  her  heart  would  soon  praise  him  too. 
But  Percivale  was  a  modest  man,  and  I  think  attributed 
her  emotion  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  danger  m  the 


56o  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

■  •  t  ' 

way  of  duty, — a  fact  sufficient  to  move  the  heart  of  any 
good  woman. 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  busy  herself  with  the  tea- 
pot. Her  hand  trembled.  I  requested  Percivale  to  begin 
his  story  once  more ;  and  he  evidently  enjoyed  recount- 
ing to  her  the  adventures  of  the  night 

I  asked  him  to  sit  down  and  have  a  second  breakfast 
while  I  went  into  the  village,  whereto  he  seemed  nothing 
loath. 

As  I  crossed  the  floor  of  the  old  mill  to  see  how  Joe 
was,  the  head  of  the  sexton  appeared  emerging  from  it. 
He  looked  full  of  weighty  solemn  business.  Bidding  me 
good  morning,  he  turned  to  the  corner  where  his  tools 
lay,  and  proceeded  to  shoulder  spade  and  pickaxe 

**  Ah,  Coombes  1  you  '11  want  them,"  I  said. 

**A  good  many  o'  my  people  be  come  all  at  once, 
you  see,  sir,'*  he  returned.  "  I  shall  have  enough  ado  to 
make  'em  all  comfortable  like." 

"  But  you  must  get  help,  you  know.  You  can  never 
make  them  all  comfortable  yourself  alone." 

"  We  '11  see  what  I  can  do,"  he  returned.  **  I  ben*t  a 
bit  willing  to  let  no  one  do  my  work  for  me,  I  do  assure 
you,  sir." 

"  How  many  are  there  wanting  your  services  f  **  I 
asked. 

"  There  be  fifteen  of  them  now,  and  there  be  more,  I 
don't  doubt  on  the  way." 

"  But  you  won't  think  of  making  separate  graves  for 
them  all,"  I  said.  "They  died  together:  let  them  lie 
•ogether." 


THE    FUNERAL.  ^6l 


The  old  man  set  down  his  tools,  and  looked  me  in 
the  face  with  indignation.  The  face  was  so  honest  and 
old,  that  without  feehng  I  had  deserved  it,  I  yet  felt  the 
rebuke. 

"  How  would  you  like,  sir,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  to  be 
put  in  the  same  bed  with  a  lot  of  people  you  didn't  know 
nothing  about]" 

I  knew  the  old  man's  way,  and  that  any  argument 
which  denied  the  premiss  of  his  peculiar  fancy,  was 
worse  than  thrown  away  upon  him.  I  therefore  ven- 
tured no  farther  than  to  say  that  I  had  heard  death  was 
a  leveller. 

"  That  be  very  true ;  and,  mayhap,  they  mightn't 
think  of  it  after  they  'd  been  down  awhile — six  weeks, 
mayhap,  or  so.  But  anyhow,  it  can't  be  comfortable 
for  'em,  poor  things.  One  on  'em  be  a  baby :  I  daresay 
he  'd  rather  lie  with  his  mother.  The  doctor  he  say  one 
o'  the  women  be  a  mother.  I  don't  know,"  he  went  oa 
reflectively,  "  whether  she  be  the  bab/s  own  mother, 
but  I  daresay  neither  o*  them  '11  mind  it  if  I  take  it  for 
granted,  and  lay  *em  down  together.  So  that 's  one  bed 
less." 

One  thing  was  clear,  that  the  old  man  could  not  dig 

fourteen  graves  within  the  needful  time.     But  I  would 

Qot  interfere  with  his  office  in  the  church,  having  no 

reason  to  doubt  that  he  would  perform  its  duties  to  per- 

Tection.     He  shouldered  his  tools  again  and  walke<i  out 

I  descended  the  stair,  thinking  to  ses  Joe ;  but  thatt  was 

DO  one  there  but  the  old  woman. 

**  Where  are  Joe  and  Agnes  V 

m  « 


SSl  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

**  You  see,  sir,  Joe  had  promised  a  little  job  of  work 
to  be  ready  to-day,  and  so  he  couldn't  stop.  He  did 
say  Agnes  needn't  go  with  him ;  but  she  thought  she 
couldn't  part  with  him  so  soon,  you  see,  sir." 

"  She  had  received  him  from  the  dead — raised  to  life 
again,"  I  said.  "  It  was  most  natural.  But  what  a 
fine  fellow  Joe  is:  nothing  will  make  him  neglect  his 
Vork!" 

"  I  tried  to  get  him  to  stop,  sir,  saying  he  had  done 
quite  enough  last  night  for  all  next  day ;  but  he  told  me 
it  was  his  business  to  get  the  tire  put  on  Farmer  Wheat- 
stone's  Cctrt  wheel  to-day  just  as  much  as  it  was  his  Dusi- 
ness  to  go  in  the  life-boat  yesterday.  So  he  would  go, 
and  Aggy  wouldn't  stay  behind." 

"  Fine  fellow,  Joe  V  I  said,  and  took  my  leave. 

As  I  drew  near  the  village,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
hammering  and  sawing,  and  apparently  everything  at 
once  in  the  way  of  joinery:  they  were  making  the 
coffins  in  the  joiners'  shops,  of  which  there  were  two  in 
the  place. 

I  do  not  like  coflSns.  They  seem  to  me  relics  of  bar- 
barism. If  I  had  my  way,  I  would  have  the  old  thing 
decently  wound  in  a  fair  linen  cloth,  and  so  laid  in  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  whence  it  was  taken.  I  would  have 
it  vanish,  not  merely  from  the  world  of  vision,  but  from 
the  world  of  form,  as  soon  as  may  be.  The  embrace 
of  the  fine  life-hoarding,  life-giving  mould,  seems  to  me 
comforting,  in  the  vague,  foolish  fancy  that  will  some- 
times emerge  from  the  froth  of  reverie — I  mean  of  sul> 
dued  consciousness   remaining:    in   tiie  outworn   frame. 


THE    FUNERAL,  563 


But  the  coffin  is  altogether  and  vilely  repellent  Of  this, 
however,  enough.  I  hate  even  the  shadow  of  sentiment, 
though  some  of  my  readers  who  may  not  yet  have  learned 
to  distinguish  between  sentiment  and  feehng,  may  wondei 
how  I  dare  to  utter  such  a  barbarism. 

I  went  to  the  house  of  the  county  magistrate  hard  by, 
for  I  thought  something  might  have  to  be  done  in  which 
I  had  a  share.  I  found  that  he  had  sent  a  notice  of  the 
loss  of  the  vessel  to  the  Liverpool  papers,  requesting 
those  who  might  wish  to  identify  or  claim  any  of  the 
bodies,  to  appear  within  four  days  at  Kilkhaven. 

This  threw  the  last  upon  Saturday,  and  before  the  end 
of  the  week  it  was  clear  that  they  must  not  remain  above 
ground  over  Sunday.  I  therefore  arranged  that  they 
should  be  buried  late  on  the  Saturday  night 

On  the  Friday  morning,  a  young  woman  and  an  old 
man,  unknown  to  each  other,  arrived  by  the  coach  from 
Barnstaple.  They  had  come  to  see  the  last  of  their 
friends  in  this  world ;  to  look,  if  they  might,  at  the 
shadow  left  behind  by  the  departing  soul.  For  as  the 
shadow  of  any  object  remains  a  moment  upon  the  magic 
curtain  of  the  eye  after  the  object  itself  has  gone,  so  the 
shadow  of  the  soul,  namely,  the  body,  lingers  a  moment 
upon  the  earth,  after  the  object  itself  has  gone  to  the 
•*  high  countries."  It  was  well  to  see  with  what  a  sober 
sorrow  the  dignified  little  old  man  bore  his  grief.  It 
was  as  if  he  felt  that  the  loss  of  his  son  was  only  for  a 
moment  But  the  young  woman  had  taken  on  the  hue 
of  the  corpse  she  came  to  seek.  Her  eyes  were  sunken 
as  if  with  the  weight  of  the  light  she  cared  not  for,  and 


04  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

her  checks  had  already  pined  away  as  if  to  be  ready  for 
the  grave.  A  being  thus  emptied  of  its  glory  seized  and 
possessed  my  thoughts.  She  never  even  told  us  whom 
she  came  seeking,  and  after  one  involuntary  question, 
which  simply  received  no  answer,  I  was  very  careful  not 
even  to  approach  another.  I  do  not  think  the  form  she 
sought  was  there ;  and  she  may  have  gone  home  with 
the  lingering  hope,  to  cast  the  grey  aurora  of  a  doubtful 
dawn  over  her  coming  days,  that,  after  all,  that  one  had 
escaped. 

On  the  Friday  afternoon,  with  tne  approbation  of  the 
magistrate,  I  had  all  the  bodies  removed  to  the  church. 
Some  in  their  coflfins,  others  on  stretchers,  they  were  laid 
in  front  of  the  communion-rail.  In  the  evening  these 
two  went  to  see  them.  I  took  care  to  be  present  The 
old  man  soon  found  his  son.  I  was  at  his  elbow  as  he 
walked  between  the  rows  of  the  dead.  He  turned  to 
me  and  said  quietly — 

"  That 's  him,  sir.  He  was  a  good  lad.  God  rest 
his  soul.  He  *s  with  his  mother ;  and  if  I  'm  sorry,  she 's 
glad." 

With  that  he  smiled,  or  tried  to  smile.  I  could  only 
lay  my  hand  on  his  arm,  to  let  him  know  that  I  under- 
stood him,  and  was  with  him.  He  walked  out  of  the 
church,  sat  down  upon  a  stone,  and  stared  at  the  mould 
of  a  new-made  grave  in  front  of  him.  What  was  passing 
behind  those  eyes  God  only  knew — certainly  the  man 
himself  did  not  know.  Our  lightest  thoughts  are  o( 
more  awful  significance  than  the  most  serious  of  us  caa 


THE    FUNERAL.  565 


For  the  young  woman,  I  thought  she  left  the  church 
wiih  a  little  light  in  her  eyes;  but  she  had  said  nothing. 
Alas  !  that  the  body  was  not  there  could  no  more  justify 
her  than  Milton  in  letting  her 

frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

With  him,  too,  she  might  well  add — 

Ay  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away. 

But  God  had  them  in  his  teaching,  and  all  I  could  do 
was  to  ask  them  to  be  my  guests  till  the  funeral  and  the 
following  Sunday  were  over.  To  this  they  kindly  con- 
sented, and  I  took  them  to  my  wife,  who  received  them 
like  herself,  and  had  in  a  few  minutes  made  them  at 
home  with  her,  to  which  no  doubt  their  sorrow  tended, 
for  that  brings  out  the  relations  of  humanity  and  destroys 
its  distinctions. 

The  next  morning  a  Scotchman  of  a  very  decided 
type,  originally  from  Aberdeen,  but  resident  in  Liver- 
pool, appeared,  seeking  the  form  of  his  daughter.  I 
had  arranged  that  whoever  came  should  be  brought  to 
me  first  I  went  with  him  to  the  church.  He  was  a 
tall,  gaunt,  bony  man,  with  long  arms  and  huge  hands, 
a  rugged  granite-like  face,  and  a  slow  ponderous  utter- 
ance, which  I  had  some  difficulty  in  understanding. 
He  treated  the  object  of  his  visit  with  a  certain  hardness 
and  at  the  same  time  lightness,  which  also  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  understanding. 

"  You  want  to  see  the  " 1  said,  and  hesitated. 

**Ow  ay — the  boadies,"  he  answered.      "She  winnt 


5^6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

be  there,  I  daursay,  but  I  wad  jist  like  to  see ;  for  I 
wadna  like  her  to  be  beeried  gin  sae  be  'at  she  was 
there,  wi'oot  biddin'  her  good-bye  like." 

When  we  reached  the  church,  I  opened  the  door  and 
entered.  An  awe  fell  upon  me  fresh  and  new.  The 
beautiful  church  had  become  a  tomb:  solemn,  grand, 
ancient,  it  rose  as  a  memorial  of  the  dead  who  lay  in 
peace  before  her  altar-rail,  as  if  they  had  fled  thither  for 
sanctuary  from  a  sea  of  troubles.  And  I  thought  with 
myself:  will  the  time  ever  come  when  the  churches 
shall  stand  as  the  tombs  of  holy  things  that  have  passed 
away,  when  Christ  shall  have  rendered  up  the  kingdom 
to  his  Father,  and  no  man  shall  need  to  teach  his  neigh- 
bour or  his  brother,  saying,  "  Know  the  Lord  ?  "  The 
thought  passed  through  my  mind  and  vanished  as  I  led 
my  companion  up  to  the  dead. 

He  glanced  at  one  and  another  and  passed  on.  He 
liad  looked  at  ten  or  twelve  ere  he  stopped,  gazing  on 
the  face  of  the  beautiful  form  which  had  first  come  ashore. 
He  stooped,  and  stroked  the  white  cheeks,  taking  the 
dead  in  his  great  rough  hands,  and  smoothed  the  brown 
hair  tenderly,  saying,  as  if  he  had  quite  forgotten  that 
she  was  dead — 

•*  Eh,  Maggie  !  hoo  cam^y^  here,  lass  ?** 

Then,  as  if  for  the  first  time  the  reality  had  groAvn 
comprehensible,  he  put  his  hands  before  his  face,  and 
burst  into  tears.  His  huge  frame  was  shaken  with  sobs 
for  one  long  minute,  while  I  stood  looking  on  with  awe 
and  reverence.  He  ceased  suddenly,  pulled  a  blue  cotton 
handkerchief  with  yellow  spots  on  it — I  see  it  now — from 


THE    FUNERAL.  567 


his  pocket,  rubued  his  face  with  it  as  if  drying  it  with  a 
towel,  put  it  back,  turned,  and  baid,  without  looking  at 
me,  **I'll  awa'  hame." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  piece  of  her  hair?"  I  asked. 

"  Gin  ye  please,"  he  answered  gently,  as  if  Ijis  daugh- 
ter's form  had  been  mine  now,  and  her  hair  were  mine 
to  give. 

By  the  vestry  door  sat  Mrs  Coombes,  watching  the 
dead,  with  her  sweet  solemn  smile,  and  her  constant 
ministration  of  knitting. 

*'  Have  you  got  a  pair  of  scissors  there,  Mn 
Coombes  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  sir,"  she  answered,  rising,  and  Hfl- 
ing  a  huge  pair  by  the  string  suspending  them  from  her 
waist. 

**  Cut  off  a  nice  pi.ece  of  this  beautiful  hair,"  I  said. 

She  lifted  the  lovely  head,  chose,  and  cut  off  a  long 
piece,  and  handed  it  respectfully  to  the  father. 

He  took  it  without  a  word,  sat  down  on  the  step  be- 
fore the  communion-rail,  and  began  to  smooth  out  the 
wonderful  sleave  of  dusky  gold.  It  was,  indeed,  beauti- 
ful hair.  As  he  drew  it  out,  I  thought  it  must  be  a  yard 
long.  He  passed  his  big  fingers  through  and  through 
it,  but  tenderly,  as  if  it  had  been  still  growing  on  the  live 
lovely  head,  stopping  every  moment  to  pick  out  the  bits 
of  sea-weed  and  shells,  and  shake  out  the  sand  that  had 
been  wrought  into  its  mass.  He  sat  thus  for  nearly  half- 
an-hour,  and  we  stood  looking  on  with  something  closely 
akin  to  awe.  At  length  he  folded  it  up,  drew  from  his 
pocket  an  old  black  leather  book,  laid  it  carefully  in  the 


568  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


innermost  pocket,  and  rose.  I  led  the  way  from  the 
church,  and  he  followed  me. 

Outside  the  church,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm, 
and  said,  groping  with  his  other  hand  in  his  trowsers- 
pocket — 

"She'll  hae  putten  ye  to  some  expense — for  the 
coffin  an'  sic  like." 

"  We  '11  talk  about  that  afterwards,"  I  answered. 
**  Come  home  with  me  now,  and  have  some  refreshment.** 

"  Na,  I  thank  ye.  I  hae  putten  ye  to  eneuch  o* 
tribble  already.     I  '11  jist  awa'  hame." 

"  We  are  going  to  lay  them  down  this  evening.  You 
won't  go  before  the  funeral.  Indeed,  I  think  you  can't 
get  away  till  Monday  morning.  My  wife  and  I  v/ill  be 
glad  of  your  company  till  then." 

**  I  'm  no  company  for  gentle-fowk,  sir." 

"  Come  and  show  me  in  which  of  these  graves  you 
would  like  to  have  her  laid,"  I  said. 

He  yielded  and  followed  me. 

Coombes  had  not  dug  many  spadefuls  before  he  saw 
what  had  been  plain  enough — that  ten  such  men  as  he 
could  not  dig  the  graves  in  time.  But  there  was  plenty 
of  help  to  be  had  from  the  village  and  the  neighbour- 
ing farms.  Most  of  them  were  now  ready,  but  a  good 
many  men  were  still  at  work.  The  brown  hillocks  lay 
about  the  churchyard — the  mole-heaps  of  burrowing 
Death. 

The  stranger  looked  around  him.  His  face  grew 
critical  He  stepped  a  little  hither  and  thither.  At 
length  he  turned  to  me  and  said— 


THE    FUNERAL.  569 


"I  wadna  like  to  be  greedy;  but  gin  ye  wad  lat  her 
lie  next  the  kirk  there — i'  that  neuk — I  wad  tak'  it  kindly. 
And  syne  gin  ever  it  cam'  aboot  that  I  cam'  here  again,  I 
wad  ken  whaur  she  was.  Could  ye  get  a  sma'  bit  heidstane 
putten  up  ?     I  wad  leave  the  siller  wi'  ye  to  pay  for 't.'* 

"To  be  sure  I  can.  What  will  you  have  put  on  the 
stone?" 

"Ow  jist — lat  me  see — Maggie  Jamieson — nae  Mar- 
get,  but  jist  Maggie.  She  was  aye  Maggie  at  hame. 
Maggie  Jamieson,  frae  her  father.  It 's  the  last  thing 
I  can  gie  her.  Maybe  ye  micht  put  a  verse  o'  Scripter 
aneath  't,  ye  ken." 

"  What  verse  would  you  like?** 
He  thought  for  a  little. 

"  Isna  there  a  text  that  says,  *  The  deid  shall  hear  his 
voice'!" 

"  Yes :  *  The  dead  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  Son  of 
God.'" 

"  Ay.  That 's  it.  Weel  jist  put  that  on. — They  canna 
do  better  than  hear  his  voice,"  he  added,  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  Scotch  ratiocination. 

I  led  the  way  home,  and  he  accompanied  me  without 
further  objection  or  apology.  After  dinner,  I  proposed 
that  we  should  go  upon  the  downs,  for  the  day  was  warm 
and  bright.  We  sat  on  the  grass.  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  talk  to  them  as  from  myself.  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
possible  gulfs  of  sorrow  in  their  hearts.  To  me  their 
forms  seemed  each  like  a  hill  in  whose  unseen  bosom 
lay  a  cavern  of  dripping  waters,  perhaps  with  a  subter- 
ranean torrent  of  anguish  raving  tIirou|;;h  its  hollows  and 


57*  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

tumbling  down  hidden  precipices,  whose  voice  God  only 
heard,  and  God  only  could  stilL  The  daughter  might, 
though  from  her  face  I  did  not  think  it,  have  gone 
away  against  her  father's  will.  That  son  rnight  have 
been  a  ne'er-do-weel  at  home — how  could  I  tell  ?  The 
woman  might  be  looking  for  the  lover  that  had  forsaken 
her — I  could  not  divine.  I  would  speak  no  words  of 
my  own.  The  Son  of  God  had  spoken  words  of  com- 
fort to  his  mourning  friends,  when  he  was  the  present 
God  and  they  were  the  forefront  of  humanity :  I  would 
read  some  of  the  words  he  spoke.  From  them  the 
human  nature  in  each  would  draw  what  comfort  it  could. 
I  took  my  New  Testament  from  my  pocket,  and  said, 
without  any  preamble, 

"  When  our  Lord  was  going  to  die,  he  knew  that  his 
friends  loved  him  enough  to  be  very  wretched  about  it 
He  knew  that  they  would  be  overwhelmed  for  a  time 
with  trouble.  He  knew,  too,  that  they  could  not  believe 
the  glad  end  of  it  all,  to  which  end  he  looked,  across 
the  awful  death  that  awaited  him — a  death  to  which  that 
of  our  friends  in  the  wreck  was  ease  itself.  I  will  just 
read  to  you  what  he  said." 

I  read  from  the  fourteenth  to  the  seventeenth  chapter 
of  St  John's  Gospel.  I  knew  there  were  worlds  of  mean- 
ing in  the  words  into  which  I  could  hardly  hope  any  of 
ihem  would  enter.  But  I  knew  likewise  that  the  best 
tilings  are  just  those  from  which  the  humble  will  draw 
the  truth  they  are  capable  of  seeing.  Therefore  I  read 
as  for  myself,  and  left  it  to  them  to  hear  for  themselveg. 
Nor  did  I  add  any  word  of  comment,  Tearful  of  daikenr 


THE    FUNERAL.  571 


ing  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge.  For  the 
Bible  is  awfully  set  against  what  is  not  wise. 

When  I  had  finished,  I  closed  the  book,  rose  from 
the  grass,  and  walked  towards  the  brow  of  the  shore. 
They  rose  likewise  and  followed  me.  I  talked  of  slight 
things ;  the  tone  was  all  that  communicated  between 
us.  But  little  of  any  so~t  was  said.  The  sea  lay  still 
before  us,  knowing  nothing  of  the  sorrow  it  had  caused. 

We  wandered  a  little  way  along  the  cliE  The  burial- 
service  was  at  seven  o'clock. 

"  I  ha.ve  an  invalid  to  visit  out  in  this  direction,"  I 
s:iid  :  "would  you  mind  walking  with  me?  I  shall  not 
stay  more  than  five  minutes,  and  we  shall  get  back  just 
in  time  for  tea.'* 

They  assented  kindly.  I  walked  first  with  one,  then 
with  another  j  heard  a  little  of  the  story  of  each  ;  was 
able  to  say  a  few  words  of  sympathy,  and  point,  as  it 
were,  a  few  times,  towards  the  hills  whence  cometh  our 
aid.  I  may  just  mention  here,  that  smce  our  return  to 
Marsh  mallows,  I  have  had  two  of  them,  the  young  woman 
and  the  Scotchman,  to  visit  us  there. 

The  bell  began  to  toll,  and  we  went  to  church.  My 
companions  placed  themselves  near  the  dead.  I  went 
into  the  vestry  till  the  appointed  hour.  I  thought,  as  I 
put  on  my  surplice,  how,  in  all  religions  but  the  Christian, 
the  dead  body  was  a  pollution  to  the  temple.  Here  the 
Church  received  it,  as  a  holy  thing,  for  a  last  embrace 
ere  it  went  to  the  earth. 

As  the  dead  were  already  in  the  church,  the  usual 
fojin  could  not  be  carried  out      I  therefore  stood  by 


572  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

the  communion-table,  and  there  began  to  read  :  "I  am 
the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  :  he  that 
believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  : 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never 
die." 

I  advanced  as  I  read,  till  I  came  outside  the  rails,  and 
Btood  before  the  dead.  There  I  read  the  Psalm,  "  Lord, 
thou  hast  been  our  refuge ;  *'  and  the  glorious  lesson, 
"Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead,  and  become  the 
first-fruits  of  them  that  slept"  Then  the  men  of  the 
neighbourhood  came  forward,  and  in  long  solemn  pro- 
cession bore  the  bodies  out  of  the  church,  each  to  its 
grave.  At  the  church  door  I  stood  and  read,  ".Man 
that  is  born  of  a  woman  ; "  then  went  from  one  to  an- 
other of  the  graves,  and  read  over  each,  as  the  earth 
fell  on  the  coffin-lid,  "  Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased 
Almighty  God  of  his  great  mercy."  Then,  again,  I  went 
back  to  the  church  door,  and  read,  "  I  heard  a  voice 
from  heaven  ; "  and  so  to  the  end  of  the  service. 

Leaving  the  men  to  fill  up  the  graves,  I  hastened  to 
lay  aside  my  canonicals,  that  I  might  join  my  guests. 
But  my  wife  and  daughter  had  already  prevailed  on 
them  to  leave  the  churchyard. 

A  word  now  concerning  my  own  family.  Turner  in- 
sisted on  Connie's  remaining  in  bed  for  two  or  three 
days.  She  looked  worse  in  face — pale  and  worn  ;  but 
it  was  clear  from  the  way  she  moved  in  bed,  that  the 
fresli  power  called  forth  by  the  shock  had  not  vanished 
with  the  moment. 

Wynnie  was  quieter  almost  than  ever.     But  there  wat 


THE    FUNERAL.  573 


g  constant  secret  light,  if  I  may  use  the  paradox,  in  her 
eyes.  Percivale  was  at  the  house  every  day,  always 
ready  to  make  himself  useful.  My  wife  bore  up  won- 
derfully. As  yet  the  much  greater  catastrophe  had  come 
far  short  of  the  impression  made  by  the  less.  When 
quieter  hours  should  come,  however,  I  could  not  help 
fearing  that  the  place  would  be  dreadfully  painful  to  all 
but  the  younger  ones,  who,  of  course,  had  the  usual 
child-gift  of  forgetting.  The  servants,  even  Walter, 
looked  thin  and  anxious. 

That  Saturday  night,  I  found  myself,  as  I  had  once  or 
twice  found  myself  before,  entirely  unprepared  to  preacli. 
I  did  not  feel  anxious,  because  I  did  not  feel  that  I  was 
to  blame  :  I  had  been  so  much  occupied.  I  had  again 
and  again  turned  my  thoughts  thitherward,  but  nothing 
recommended  itself  to  me  so  that  I  could  say,  "  I  must 
take  that ; "  nothing  said  plainly,  "  This  is  what  you 
have  to  speak  of" 

As  often  as  I  had  sought  to  find  fitting  matter  for  my 
sermon,  my  mind  had  turned  to  death  and  the  grave ; 
but  I  shrunk  from  every  suggestion,  or  rather,  nothing 
had  come  to  me  that  interested  myself  enough  to  justify 
me  in  giving  it  to  my  people.  And  I  always  took  it 
as  my  sole  justification  in  speaking  of  anything  to  the 
flock  of  Christ,  that  I  cared  heartily  in  my  own  soul 
for  that  thing.  Without  this  consciousness,  I  was  dumb. 
And  I  do  think,  highly  as  I  value  prophecy,  that  a 
clergyman  ought  to  be  at  liberty  upon  occasion  to  say, 
"  My  friends,  I  cannot  preach  to-day."  What  a  riddance 
It  would  be  for  the  Church — I  do  not  say  if  every  priest 


574  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

were  to  speak  sense,  but  only  if  every  priest  were  to 
abstain  from  speaking  of  that  in  which,  at  the  moment, 
he  feels  little  or  no  interest ! 

I  went  to  bed,  which  is  often  the  very  best  thing  a 
man  can  do;  for  sleep  will  bring  him  from  God  that 
which  no  effort  of  his  own  will  can  compass.  I  have 
read  somewhere — I  will  verify  it  by  present  search — 
that  Luther's  translation  of  the  verse  in  the  psalm, 
**  so  he  giveth  to  his  beloved  sleep,"  is,  "  he  giveth 
his  beloved  sleeping,"  or  while  asleep.  Yes,  so  it  is — 
literally,  in  English,  **It  is  in  vain  that  ye  rise  early, 
and  then  sit  long,  and  eat  your  bread  with  care,  for 
to  his  friends  he  gives  it  sleeping."  This  was  my 
experience  in  the  present  instance,  for  the  thought  of 
which  I  was  first  conscious  when  I  awoke  was — "  Why 
should  I  talk  about  death  1  Every  man's  heart  is  now 
full  of  death."  We  have  enough  of  that,  even  the  sura 
that  God  has  sent  us  on  the  wings  of  the  tempest 
What  I  have  to  do,  as  the  minister  of  the  new  covenant, 
is  to  speak  of  life."  It  flashed  in  on  my  mind  :  "  Death 
is  over  and  gone.  The  resurrection  comes  next :  I  will 
speak  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus." 

The  same  moment  I  knew  that  I  was  ready  to  speak. 
Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  give  my  reader  the  substance  of 
what  I  said  ?  I  wish  I  knew  how  many  of  them  would 
like  it,  and  how  many  would  not.  I  do  not  want  to 
bore  them  with  sermons,  especially  seeing  I  have  always 
said  that  no  seimons  ought  to  be  printed,  for  in  print 
they  are  but  what  the  old  alchymists  would  have  called 
t  ca/fui  moriuum^  or  death's  head,  namely,  \  lifeless  lump 


THE    FUNERAL,  573 


of  residuum  at  the  bottom  of  the  crucible ;  for  they  have 
no  longer  the  living  human  utterance  which  gives  aU 
the  power  on  the  minds  of  the  hearers.  But  I  have  not, 
either  in  this,  or  in  my  preceding  narrative,  attempted 
to  give  a  sermon  as  X  preached  it.  1  have  only  sought 
to  present  the  subst:.nce  of  it  in  a  form  fitter  for  being 
read,  somewhat  cleared  of  the  unavoidable,  let  me  say 
necessary — yes,  I  will  say  valuable  repetitions  and  en- 
forcements by  which  the  various  considerations  are 
pressed  upon  the  minds  of  the  hearers.  These  are 
entirely  wearisome  in  print — useless  too,  for  the  reader 
may  ponder  over  every  phrase  till  he  finds  out  the  pur- 
port of  it — if  indeed  there  be  such  readers  now-a-days. 

I  rose,  went  down  to  the  bath  in  the  rocks,  had  a 
joyous  physical  ablution,  and  a  swim  up  and  down  the 
narrow  cleft,  from  which  I  emerged  as  if  myself  newly 
born  or  raised  anew,  and  then  wandered  about  on  the 
downs  full  of  hope  and  thankfulness,  seeking  all  I  could 
to  plant  deep  in  my  mind  the  long-rooted  truths  of 
resurrection,  that  they  might  be  not  only  ready  to 
blossom  in  the  warmth  of  the  spring-tides  to  come,  but 
able  to  send  out  some  leaves  and  promissory  buds  even 
in  the  wintry  time  of  the  soul,  when  the  fogs  of  pain 
steam  up  from  the  frozen  clay  soil  of  the  body,  and  make 
the  monarch-will  totter  dizzily  upon  his  throne,  to 
comfort  the  eyes  of  the  bewildered  king,  reminding  him 
t'uat  the  King  of  kings  hath  conquered  Death  and  the 
Grave.  There  is  no  perfect  faith  that  cannot  laugh  at 
winters  and  grave-yards,  and  all  the  whole  array  of 
defiant  appearances.     The  fresh  breeze  of  the  morning^ 


576  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

visited  me.  "  O  God  !"  I  said  in  my  heart,  "would  that 
when  the  dark  day  comes  in  which  I  can  feel  nothing, 
I  may  be  able  to  front  it  with  the  memory  of  this  day's 
strength,  and  so  help  myself  to  trust  in  the  Father  I 
I  would  call  to  mind  the  days  of  old,  with  David  the 
king." 

When  I  returned  to  the  house,  I  found  that  one  ol 
the  sailors  who  had  been  cast  ashore  with  his  leg  broken, 
wished  to  see  me.  I  obeyed,  and  found  him  very  pale 
and  worn. 

•*  I  think  I  am  going,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  wanted 
to  see  you  before  I  die." 

**  Trust  in  Christ,  and  do  not  be  afraid,"  I  returned. 

**  I  prayed  to  him  to  save  me  when  I  was  hanging  to 
the  rigging,  and  if  I  wasn't  afraid  then,  I  'm  not  going 
to  be  afraid  now,  dying  quietly  in  my  bed.  But  just 
look  here,  sir." 

He  took  from  under  his  pillow  something  wrapped  up 
in  paper,  unfolded  the  envelope,  and  showed  a  lump  oi 
something — I  could  n-ot  at  first  tell  what  He  put  it  in 
my  hand,  and  then  I  saw  that  it  was  part  of  a  bible,  with 
nearly  the  upper  half  of  it  worn  or  cut  away,  and  the 
rest  partly  in  a  state  of  pulp. 

"That's  the  bible  my  mother  gave  me  when  I  left 
home  first,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to 
put  it  in  my  pocket,  but  I  think  the  rope  that  cut 
through  that  when  I  was  lashed  to  the  shrouds  would 
a'mo&t  nave  cut  through  my  ribs  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  it." 

"  Verj'  likely,"  I  returned.     «*  The  body  of  the  Bible 


THK    FUNERAL. 


has  saved  your  bodily  life :  may  the  spirit  of  it  save  your 
spiritual  life." 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,  sir/'  he  panted  out. 
**  My  mother  was  a  good  woman,  and  I  know  she  prayed 
to  God  for  me. ' 

**  Would  you  like  us  to  pray  for  you  in  church  to-day  T' 

"If  you  please,  sir ;  rae  and  Bob  Fox.  He 's  nearly 
as  bad  as  I  am." 

"  We  won't  forget  you,"  I  said.  **  I  will  come  in  aftei 
church  and  see  how  you  are.** 

I  knelt  and  offered  the  prayers  for  the  sick,  and  then 
took  my  leave.  I  did  not  think  the  poor  fellow  was 
going  to  die. 

I  may  as  well  mention  here,  that  he  has  been  in  my 
service  ev:r  since.  We  took  him  with  us  to  Marsh- 
mallov/s,  where  he  works  in  the  garden  and  stables, 
and  is  very  useful  We  have  to  look  after  him  though. 
for  his  health  continues  deacace 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE   SERMON, 

HEN  I  Stood  up  to  preach,  I  gave  them  no 
text,  but  with  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the 
Gospel  of  St.  John  open  before  me,  to  keep 
me  correct,  I  proceeded  to  tell  the  story  in 
the  words  God  gave  me,  for  who  can  daie  to  say  that 
he  makes  his  own  commonest  speech  ? 

**  When  Jesus  Christ  the  son  of  God,  and  therefore  out 
elder  brother,  was  going  about  on  the  earth,  eating  and 
drinking  with  his  brothers  and  sisters,  there  was  one 
family  he  loved  especially — a  family  of  two  sisters  and 
a  brother ;  for,  although  he  loves  everybody  as  much  as 
they  can  be  loved,  there  are  some  who  can  be  loved 
more  than  others.  Only  God  is  always  trying  to  m.ake 
us  such  that  we  can  be  loved  more  and  more.  There 
are  several  stories-^oh,  such  lovely  stoiies  ! — about  that 
family  and  Jesus.  And  we  have  to  do  with  one  ot  tbrin 
too«r» 


THE    SERMON,  579 


**They  lived  near  the  capital  of  the  country,  Jerusalem, 
in  a  village  they  called  Bethany ;  and  it  must  have  been 
a  great  relief  to  our  Lord,  when  he  was  worn  out  with  the 
obstinacy  and  pride  of  the  great  men  of  the  city,  to  go 
out  to  the  quiet  little  town,  and  into  the  refuge  of  Laza- 
rus's  house,  where  every  one  was  more  glad  at  the  sound 
of  his  feet  than  at  any  news  that  could  come  to  them. 

**  They  had  at  this  time  behaved  so  ill  to  him  in.  Jeru- 
salem, taking  up  stones  to  stone  him  even,  though  they 
dared  not  quite  do  it,  mad  with  anger  as  they  were — and 
all  because  he  told  them  the  truth— that  he  had  gone 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the  great  river  that  divided  the 
country,  and  taught  the  people  in  that  quiet  place. 
While  he  was  there,  his  friend  Lazarus  was  taken  ill,  and 
the  two  sisters,  Martha  and  Mary,  sent  a  messenger  to 
him,  to  say  to  him,  *  Lord,  your  friend  is  very  ill.'  Only 
they  said  it  more  beautifully  than  that :  *  Lord,  behold, 
he  whom  thou  lovest  is  sick.'  You  know  when  any  one 
is  ill,  we  always  want  the  person  whom  he  loves  most  to 
come  to  him.  This  is  very  wonderful.  In  the  worst 
things  that  can  come  to  us,  the  first  thought  is  of  love. 
People,  like  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  might  say,  '  What 
good  can  that  do  him  ? '  And  we  may  not  in  the  least 
suppose  the  person  we  want  knows  any  secret  that  can 
cure  his  pain ;  yet  love  is  the  first  thing  we  think  of. 
And  here  we  are  more  right  than  we  know ;  for,  at  the 
long  last,  love  will  cure  everything ;  which  truth,  indeed 
this  story  will  set  forth  to  us.  No  doubt  the  heart  ol 
Lazarus,  ill  as  he  was,  longed  after  liis  friend,  and,  very 
hkclj%  even  the  sight  of  Jesus  might  have  given  him  such 


580  THE    SEAB&ARD    PARISH. 

Strength  that  the  life  in  him  could  have  driven  out 
the  death  which  had  already  got  one  foot  across  the 
threshold.  But  the  sisters  expected  more  than  this. 
Thoy  believed  that  Jesus,  whom  they  knew  to  have  driven 
disease  and  death  out  of  so  many  hearts,  had  only  to 
come  and  touch  him — nay,  only  to  speak  a  word,  to  look 
at  him,  and  their  brother  was  saved.  Do  you  think  they 
presumed  in  thus  expecting  1  The  fact  was,  they  did 
not  believe  enough ;  they  had  not  yet  learned  to  believe 
that  he  could  cure  him  all  the  same  whether  he  came  to 
them  or  not,  because  he  was  always  with  them.  We 
cannot  understand  this  ;  but  our  understanding  is  never 
a  measure  of  what  is  true. 

"  Whether  Jesus  knew  exactly  all  that  was  going  to 
take  place,  I  cannot  telL  Some  people  may  feel  certain 
upon  points  that  I  dare  not  feel  certain  upon.  One 
thing  I  am  sure  of — that  he  did  not  always  know  everj'- 
thing  beforehand,  for  he  said  so  himself.  It  is  infinitely 
more  valuable  to  us,  because  more  beautiful  and  godlike 
in  him,  that  he  should  trust  his  Father  than  that  he 
should  foresee  everything.  At  all  events  he  knew  that 
his  Father  did  not  want  him  to  go  to  his  friends  yet. 
So  he  sent  them  a  message  to  the  effect  that  there  was  a 
particular  reason  for  this  sickness,  that  the  end  of  it  was 
not  the  death  of  Lazarus,  but  the  glory  of  God.  This  I 
think  he  told  them  by  the  same  messenger  they  sent  to 
him  ;  and  then  instead  of  going  to  them  he  remained 
where  he  was. 

"  But  oh,  my  friends,  what  shall  T  say  about  this 
wondwlttl  message  1    Think  of  being  sick  for  the  glory 


THE    SERMON.  58I 


of  God  I  of  being  shipwrecked  for  the  glory  of  God  !  of 
being  drowned  for  the  glory  of  God  !  How  can  the 
[:ickness,  the  fear,  the  brokenheartednes^  of  his  creatures 
be  for  the  glory  of  God?  What  kind  of  a  God  can  that 
be  I  Why  just  a  God  so  perfectly,  absolutely  good  that 
the  things  that  look  least  like  it  are  only  the  means  of 
clearing  our  eyes  to  let  us  see  how  good  he  is.  For  he 
is  so  good  that  he  is  not  satisfied  with  being  good.  He 
loi'es  his  children  so,  that  except  he  can  make  them 
good  like  himself,  make  them  blessed  by  seeing  how 
good  he  is,  and  desiring  the  same  goodness  in  themselves, 
he  is  not  satisfied.  He  is  not  like  a  fine,  proud  bene 
factor,  who  is  content  with  doing  that  which  will  satisfy 
his  sense  of  his  own  glory,  but  like  a  mother  who  puts 
her  arm  round  her  child,  and  whose  heart  is  sore  till 
she  can  make  her  child  see  the  love  which  is  her  glory. 
The  glorification  of  the  Son  of  God  is  the  glorification 
of  the  human  race,  for  the  glory  of  God  is  the  glory  o! 
man,  and  that  glory  is  love  !  Welcome  sickness,  wel- 
come sorrow,  welcome  death,  revealing  that  glory  ! 

"  The  next  two  verses  sound  very  strangely  together, 
and  yet  they  almost  seem  typical  of  all  the  perplexities 
of  God's  dealings.  The  old  painters  and  poets  repre- 
sented Faith  as  a  beautiful  woman  holding  in  her  hand  a 
cup  of  wine  and  wate^-,  with  a  serpent  coiled  up  within. 
High-hearted  Faith  I  she  scruples  not  to  drink  of  the 
life-giving  wine  and  water  :  she  is  not  repelled  by  the 
upcoiled  serpent  The  serpent  she  takes  but  for  the 
type  of  the  eternal  wisdom  that  looks  repellent  because 
u  is  not  understood.     The  wine  is  good,  the  water  k 


i^*,- 


5ii2  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

good,  and  if  the  hand  of  the  supreme  Fate  put  that  cup 
in  her  hand,  the  serpent  itself  must  be  good  too,  harm- 
less at  least  to  hurt  the  truth  of  the  water  and  the  wine. 
But  let  us  read  the  verses. 

" '  Now  Jesus  loved  Martha,  and  her  sister,  and 
Lazarus.  When  he  had  heard  therefore  that  he  was 
sick,  he  abode  two  days  still  in  the  same  place  where 
he  was.' 

"  Strange !  his  friend  was  sick  :  he  abode  two  days 
where  he  was !  But  remember  what  we  have  already 
heard.  The  glory  of  God  was  infinitely  more  for  the 
final  cure  of  a  dyino:  Lazarus, — who,  give  him  all  the  life 
he  could  have,  would  yet,  without  that  glory,  be  in 
death, — than  the  mere  presence  of  the  Son  of  God.  I 
say  mere  presence,  for,  compared  with  the  glory  of  God, 
the  very  presence  of  his  Son,  so  dissociated,  is  nothing. 
He  abode  where  he  was  that  the  glory  of  God,  the  final 
cure  of  humanity,  the  love  that  triumphs  over  death, 
might  shine  out  and  redeem  the  hearts  of  men,  so  that 
death  could  not  touch  them, 

"  After  the  two  days,  the  hour  had  arrived.  He  said 
to  his  disciples,  *  Let  us  go  back  to  Judaea.'  They  ex- 
posiuiated  because  of  the  danger,  saying,  *  Master,  the 
Jews  cf  late  sought  to  stone  thee ;  and  goest  thou  thither 
again?'  The  answer  which  he  gave  them  I  am  not 
Bure  whether  I  can  thoroughly  understand,  but  I  think, 
in  fact  I  knov/  it  must  bear  on  the  same  region  of  life— 
the  will  of  God.  I  think  what  he  means  by  walking  in 
the  day,  is  simply,  doing  the  will  of  God.  That  was  the 
sole,  the  all-embracing  light  in  v.'  .'ch  Jesus  ever  walked. 


% 


THE    SERMON.  583 


I  think  he  means  that  now  he  saw  plainly  what  the 
Father  wanted  him  to  do.  If  he  did  not  see  that  the 
Father  wanted  him  to  go  back  to  Jud^a,  and  yet  went, 
that  would  be  to  go  stumblingly,  to  walk  in  the  dark- 
ness. There  are  twelve  hours  in  the  day — one  time  to 
act — a  time  of  light  and  the  clear  call  of  duty ;  there  is 
a  night  when  a  man,  not  seeing  where  or  hearing  how, 
must  be  content  to  rest.  Something  not  inharmonious 
with  this,  I  think,  he  must  have  intended ;  but  I  do  not 
see  the  whole  thought  clearly  er>ough  to  be  sure  that  1 
am  right.  I  do  think  further  that  it  points  at  a  clearer 
condition  of  human  vision  and  conviction  than  i  am 
good  enough  to  understand ;  though  I  hope  one  day  to 
rise  into  this  upper  stratum  of  light. 

"  Whether  his  scholars  had  heard  anything  of  Lazarus 
yet  I  do  not  know.  It  looks  a  little  as  if  Jesus  had 
not  told  them  the  message  he  had  had  from  the  sisters. 
But  he  told  them  now  that  lie  was  asleep,  and  that  he 
was  going  to  wake  him.  You  would  think  they  might 
have  understood  this.  The  idea  of  going  so  ma*ny  miles 
to  wake  a  man  might  have  surely  suggested  death.  But 
the  disciples  were  sorely  perplexed  with  many  of  his 
words.  Sometimes  they  looked  far  away  for  the  mean- 
ing when  the  meaning  lay  in  their  very  hearts ;  some- 
times they  looked  into  their  hands  for  it  when  it  was 
lost  in  the  grandeur  of  the  ages.  But  he  meant  them 
to  see  into  all  that  he  said  by  and  by,  although  they 
could  not  see  into  it  now.  When  they  understood  him 
better,  then  they  would  understand  what  he  said  better. 
And  to  understand  him  better,  they  must  be  more  lik  , 


584  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

him,  and  to  make  them  more  like  him  he  must  go  away 
and  give  them  his  spirit — awful  mystery  which  no  man 
but  himself  can  understand. 

"  Now  he  had  to  tell  them  plainly  that  Lazarus  was 
dead.  They  had  not  thought  of  death  as  a  sleep.  I 
suppose  this  was  altogether  a  new  and  Christian  idea. 
Do  not  suppose  that  it  applied  more  to  Lazarus  than  to 
other  dead  people.  He  was  none  the  l-ess  dead  that 
Jesus  meant  to  take  a  weary  two  days*  journey  to  his 
sepulchre  and  wake  him.  If  death  is  not  a  sleep,  Jesus 
did  not  speak  the  truth  when  he  said  Lazarus  slept 
You  may  say  it  was  a  figure ;  but  a  figure  that  is  not  like 
the  thing  it  figures  is  simply  a  lie. 

"  They  set  out  to  go  back  to  Judaea.  Here  we  have 
a  glimpse  of  the  faith  of  Thomas,  the  doubter.  For  a 
doubter  is  not  without  faith.  The  very  fact  that  he 
doubts,  shows  that  he  has  some  faith.  When  I  find 
any  one  hard  upon  doubters,  I  always  doubt  the  quality 
of  his  faith.  It  is  of  Httle  use  to  have  a  great  cable,  if 
the  hemp  is  so  poor  that  it  breaks  like  the  painter  of  a 
boat  I  have  known  people  whose  power  of  beheving 
chiefly  consisted  in  their  i  ncapacity  for  seeing  difficulties. 
Of  what  fine  sort  a  faith  must  be  that  is  founded  in 
stupidity,  or  far  worse,  in  indifference  to  the  truth  and 
the  mere  desire  to  get  out  of  hell  1  That  is  not  a  grand 
belief  in  the  Son  of  God,  the  radiation  of  the  Father. 
Thomas's  want  of  faith  was  shown  in  the  grumbling, 
self-pitying  way  in  which  he  said,  *  Let  us  also  go  that 
we  may  die  with  him.*  His  Master  had  said  that  he  was 
going  to  wake  him.     Thomas  said,  'that  we  may  di© 


THE    SERMON.  585 


with  him.*  You  may  say,  *  he  did  not  understand  him.' 
True,  it  may  be,  but  his  unbelief  was  the  cause  of  his 
not  understanding  him.  I  suppose  Thomas  meant  this 
as  a  reproach  to  Jesus  for  putting  them  all  in  danger  by 
going  back  to  Judaea ;  if  not,  it  was  only  a  poor  piece 
of  sentimentality.  So  much  for  Thomas's  unbelief.  But 
he  had  good  and  true  faith  notwithstanding ;  for  he  weiU 
with  his  Master. 

"By  the  time  they  reached  the  neighbourhood  ol 
Bethany,  Lazarus  had  been  dead  four  days.  Some  one 
ran  to  the  house  and  told  the  sisters  that  Jesus  was 
coming.  Martha,  as  soon  as  she  heard  it,  rose  and 
went  to  meet  him.  It  might  be  interesting  at  another 
time  to  compare  the  difference  of  the  behaviour  of  the 
two  sisters  upon  this  occasion  with  the  difference  of 
their  behaviour  upon  another  occasion  likewise  recorded; 
but  with  the  man  dead  in  his  sepulchre,  and  the  hope 
dead  in  these  two  hearts,  we  have  no  inclination  to  enter 
upon  fine  distinctions  of  character.  Death  and  grief 
bring  out  the  great  family  likenesses  in  the  living  as  well 
as  in  the  dead. 

"  When  Martha  came  to  Jesus,  she  showed  her  true 
though  imperfect  faith  by  almost  attributing  her  brother's 
death  to  Jesus'  absence.  But  even  in  the  moment,  look- 
ing in  the  face  of  the  Master,  a  fresh  hope,  a  new  bud- 
ding of  faith  began  in  her  souL  She  thought — *  what  if, 
after  all,  he  were  to  bring  him  to  life  again  ! '  Oh,  trust- 
ing heart,  how  thou  leavest  the  dull-plodding  intellect 
behind  thee  I  While  the  conceited  intellect  is  reasonim 
npon  the  impossibility  of  the  thing,  the  expectant  faitk 


5^6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

beholds  it  accomplished.  Jesus,  responding  instantly  to 
her  faith,  granting  her  half-born  prayer,  says,  '  Thy  brother 
shall  rise  again ; '  not  meaning  the  general  truth  recog- 
nized, or  at  least  assented  to  by  ail  but  the  Sadducees, 
concerning  the  final  resurrection  of  the  dead,  but  mean- 
ing, *  Be  it  unto  thee  as  thou  wilt.  I  will  raise  him 
again.'  For  there  is  no  steering  for  a  fine  effect  in  the 
words  of  Jesus.  But  these  words  are  too  good  for 
Martha  to  take  them  as  he  meant  them.  Her  faith  iji 
not  quite  equal  to  the  belief  that  he  actually  will  do  it 
The  thing  she  could  hope  for  afar  off  she  could  hardly  be- 
lieve when  it  came  to  her  very  door.  *  Oh  yes,'  she  said, 
her  mood  falling  again  to  the  level  of  the  commonplace, 
•  of  course,  at  the  last  day.'  Then  the  Lord  turns  away 
her  thoughts  from  the  dogmas  of  her  faith  to  himself, 
the  Life,  saying,  *  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life :  he 
that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he 
live.  And  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die.  Believest  thou  this  ?  *  Martha,  without  under- 
standing what  he  said  more  than  in  a  very  poor  part, 
answered  in  words  which  preserved  her  honesty  entire 
and  yet  included  all  he  asked,  and  a  thousandfold  more 
than  she  could  yet  believe  :  *  Yea,  Lord  ;  I  believe  that 
thou  art  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  which  should  come 
into  the  world.' 

**  I  dare  not  pretend  to  have  more  than  a  grand  glim- 
mering of  the  truth  of  Jesus'  words,  *  shall  never  die  * ; 
but  I  am  pretty  sure  fhat  when  Martha  came  to  die,  she 
found  that  there  was  indeed  no  such  thing  as  she  had 
meant  when  she  used  the  ghastly  word  deaths  and  said 


THE    SERMON.  587 


with  her  first  new  breath,  *  Verily,  Lord,  I  am  not 
dead/ 

**  But  look  how  this  declaration  of  her  confidence  in  the 
Christ  operated  upon  herself.  She  instantly  thought  of 
her  sister ;  the  hope  that  the  Lord  would  do  something 
swelled  within  her,  and,  leaving  Jesus,  she  went  to  find 
Mary.  Whoever  has  had  a  true  word  with  the  elder 
brother,  straightway  will  look  around  him  to  find  his 
brother,  his  sister.  The  family  feeling  blossoms :  he 
wants  his  friend  to  share  the  glory  withaL  Martha  wants 
Mary  to  go  to  Jesus  too. 

"  Mary  heard  her,  forgot  her  visitors,  rose,  and  went 
They  thought  she  went  to  the  grave  :  she  went  to  meet 
its  conqueror.  But  when  she  came  to  him,  the  woman 
who  had  chosen  the  good  part  praised  of  Jesus,  had  but 
tlie  same  words  to  embody  her  hope  and  her  grief  that 
her  careful  and  troubled  sister  had  uttered  a  few  minuies 
before.  How  often  during  those  four  days  had  not  the 
self-same  words  passed  between  them  !  *  Ah,  if  he  had 
been  here,  our  brother  had  not  died ! '  She  said  so  to 
himself  now,  and  wept,  and  her  friends  who  had  followed 
her  wept  likewise.  A  moment  more,  and  the  Master 
groaned  ;  yet  a  moment,  and  he  too  wept.  *  Sorrow  is 
catching;'  but  this  was  not  the  mere  infection  of  sorrow. 
It  went  deeper  than  mere  sympathy ;  for  he  groaned  in 
his  spirit  and  was  troubled.  What  made  hirn  weep  1  It 
was  when  he  saw  them  weeping  thr.t  he  wept  But  why 
should  he  weep,  when  he  knev/  how  soon  their  v/^iapinc; 
would  be  turned  into  rejoicing^  It  was  not  for  theri 
weeping,  so  soon  to  be  over,  tha<^  he  wept,  but  frr  tlw 


THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


i 


huniaa  heart  everj'where  swollen  with  tears,  yea,  with 
griefs  that  can  find  no  such  relief  as  tears ;  for  these,  and 
for  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  tormented  with  pain  for 
lack  of  faith  in  his  Father  in  heaven,  Jesus  wept  He 
saw  the  blessed  well-being  of  Lazarus  on  the  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  the  streaming  eyes  from  whose  sight 
he  had  vanished.  The  veil  between  was  so  thin  1  yet 
the  sight  of  those  eyes  could  not  pierce  it :  their  hearts 
must  go  on  weeping — without  cause,  for  his  Father  was 
BO  good.  I  think  it  was  the  helplessness  he  felt  in  the 
impossibility  of  at  once  sweeping  away  the  phantasm 
death  from  their  imagination  that  drew  the  tears  from 
the  eyes  of  Jesus.  Certainly  it  was  not  for  Lazarus ;  it 
could  hardly  be  for  these  his  friends — save  as  they  repre- 
sented the  humanity  which  he  would  help,  but  could  not 
help  even  as  he  was  about  to  help  them. 

"  The  Jews  saw  herein  proof  that  he  loved  Lazarus ; 
but  they  little  thought  it  was  for  them  and  their  people, 
and  for  the  Gentiles  whom  they  despised,  that  his  tears 
were  now  flowing — that  the  love  which  pressed  the 
fountains  of  his  weeping  was  love  for  every  human  heart, 
from  Adam  on  through  the  ages. 

"  Some  of  them  went  a  little  further,  nearly  as  far  as 
the  sisters,  saying,  *  Could  he  not  have  kept  the  man 
from  dying  r  But  it  was  such  a  poor  thing,  after  all, 
that  they  thoUj:;,ht  he  might  have  done.  They  regarded 
merely  this  unexpected  illness,  this  early  death ;  for  I 
d?resay  Lazarus  wzs  not  much  older  than  Jesus.  They 
did  not  think  that,  after  all,  Lazarus  must  die  some  timej 
that  the  beloved  could  be  saved,  at  best,  only  for  a  littlt 


THE    SERMON.  589 


while.  Jesus  seems  to  have  heard  the  remark,  for  he 
again  groaned  in  himself. 

"  Meantime  they  were  drawing  near  the  place  where 
he  was  buried.  It  was  a  hollow  in  the  face  of  a  rock, 
with  a  stone  laid  against  it.  I  suppose  the  bodies  were 
laid  on  something  like  shelves  inside  the  rock,  as  they 
are  in  many  sepulchres.  They  were  not  put  into  coffins, 
but  wound  round  and  round  with  linen. 

"  When  they  came  before  the  door  of  death,  Jesus 
said  to  them,  *  Take  away  the  stone.*  The  nature  oi 
Martha's  reply,  the  realism  of  it,  as  they  would  say  now- 
a-days,  would  seem  to  indicate  that  her  dawning  faith 
had  sunk  again  below  the  horizon ;  that  in  the  presence 
of  the  insignia  of  death,  her  faith  yielded,  even  as  the 
faith  of  Peter  failed  him  when  he  saw  around  him  the 
grandeur  of  the  high-priest,  and  his  master  bound  and 
helpless.  Jesus  answered^-oh,  what  an  answer ! — To 
meet  the  corruption  and  the  stink  which  filled  her  poor 
human  fancy,  *  the  glory  of  God '  came  from  his  lips : 
human  fear ;  horror  speaking  from  the  lips  of  a  woman 
in  the  very  jaws  of  the  devouring  death ;  and  the  *  said 
I  not  unto  thee  1 '  from  the  mouth  of  him  who  was  so 
soon  to  pass  worn  and  bloodless  through  such  a  door ! 
*  He  stinketh,'  said  Martha.  *  The  glory  of  God,*  said 
Jesus.  *-Said  I  not  unto  thee,  that,  if  thou  wouldest  be- 
lieve, thou  shouldest  see  the  glory  of  God  I' 

"  Before  the  open  throat  of  the  sepulchre  Jesus  began 
to  speak  to  his  Father  aloud.  He  had  prayed  to  him 
in  his  heart  before — most  likely  while  he  groaned  in  hia 
fpiriL    Now  he  thanked  him  that  he  had  comforted  him, 


590  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

arid  given  him  Lazarus  as  a  first-fruit  from  the  dead. 
But  he  will  be  true  to  the  listening  people  as  well  as  to 
his  ever-hearing  Father,  therefore  he  tells  why  he  said 
the  word  of  thanks  aloud — a  thing  not  usual  with  him,  for 
his  father  was  always  hearing  him.  Having  spoken  it  for 
the  people,  he  would  say  that  it  was  for  the  people. 

"  The  end  of  it  all  was  that  they  might  believe  that  God 
had  sent  him — a  far  grander  gift  than  having  the  dearest 
brought  back  from  the  grave — ^for  he  is  the  Life  of  men. 

**  *  Lazarus  come  forth.' " 

**  And  Lazarus  came  forth,  creeping  helplessly,  with 
inch-long  steps  of  his  linen-bound  limbs.  *  Ha  !  Ha  L 
brother  !  sister  !  *  cries  the  human  heart.  The  Lord  of 
Life  hath  taken  the  prey  from  the  spoiler  !  he  hath 
emptied  the  grave !  Here  comes  the  dead  man.  wel- 
come as  never  was  child  from  the  womb— new-bom — 
and  in  him  all  the  human  race  new-born  from  the  grave  ! 

"  'Loose  him  and  let  him  go,'  and  the  work  is  done. 
The  sorrow  is  over,  and  the  joy  is  come.  Home,  home, 
Martha,  Mary,  with  your  Lazarus  !  He  too  will  go  with 
you,  the  Lord  of  the  Living.  Home,  and  get  the  feast 
ready,  Martha !  Prepare  the  food  for  him  who  comes 
hungry  from  the  grave,  for  him  who  has  called  him 
thence.  Home,  Mary,  to  help  Martha !  What  a  house- 
hold yours  will  be  !  What  wondrous  speech  will  pass  be- 
tween the  dead  come  to  life,  and  the  living  come  to  die  I 

•*But  what  pang  is  this  that  makes  Lazarus  draw 
hurried  breath,  and  turns  Martha's  cheeks  so  white! 
Ah!  at  the  little  window  of  the  heart,  the  i.ale  eyes  ol 
the  defeated  Horror  look  in.     What !  is  he  there  still  t 


THE    SERMON  59! 


Ah,  yes,  he  will  come  for  Martha,  come  for  Mary,  come 
yet  again  for  Lazarus — yea,  come  for  the  Lord  of  Life 
himself,  and  carry  all  away.  But  look  at  the  Lord.  He 
knows  all  about  it,  and  he  smiles.  Does  Martha  think  of 
the  words  he  spoke,  *  Hje  that  liveth  and  believeth  in  ine 
shall  never  die  V  Perhaps  she  does,  and  like  the  moon 
before  the  sun,  her  face  returns  the  smile  of  her  Lord. 

"This,  my  friends,  is  a  fancy  in  form,  but  it  embodies 
a  dear  truth.  What  is  it  to  you  and  me  that  he  raised 
Lazarus  1  We  are  not  called  upon  to  believe  that  he 
will  raise  from  the  tomb  that  joy  of  our  hearts  which  lies 
buried  there  beyond  our  sight.  Stop.  Are  we  not?  We 
are  called  upon  to  believe  this.  Else  the  whole  story 
were  for  us  a  poor  mockery.  What  is  it  to  us  that  the 
Lord  raised  Lazarus  ? — Is  it  nothing  to  know  that  our 
Brother  is  Lord  over  the  gravel  Will  the  harvest  be 
behind  the  first-fruits  ?  If  he  tells  us  he  cannot,  for  good 
reasons,  raise  up  our  vanished  love  to-day,  or  to-morrow, 
or  for  all  the  yearj  of  our  life  to  come,  shall  we  not 
mingle  the  smile  of  faithful  thanks  with  the  sorrow  of 
present  loss,  and  walk  diligently  waiting?  That  he 
called  forth  Lazarus  showed  that  he  was  in  his  keeping, 
that  he  is  lord  of  the  living,  and  that  all  live  to  him — 
tnat  he  has  a  hold  of  them,  and  can  draw  them  forth 
when  he  will  If  this  is  not  true,  then  the  raising  ol 
Lazarus  is  false — I  do  not  mean  merely  false  in  fact,  but 
false  in  meaning.  If  we  believe  in  him,  then  in  his 
name,  both  for  ourselves  and  for  our  friends,  we  must 
deny  death  and  believe  in  life.  Lord  Christ,  fill  ouf 
hearts  with  thy  life." 


CHAPTER  XLT. 


CHANGED    PLAN»3. 


|N  a  day  or  two  Connie  was  permitted  to  ris« 
and  take  to  her  couch  once  more.  It  seemed 
strange  that  she  should  look  so  much  worse, 
and  yet  be  so  much  stronger.  The  growth 
of  her  power  of  motion  was  wonderful.  As  th*y  carried 
her,  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  put  her  feet  to  the 
ground.  Turner  yielded,  though  without  quite  ceasing 
t%  support  her.  He  was  satisfied,  however,  that  she 
could  have  stood  upright  for  a  moment  at  least  He 
would  not,  of  course,  risk  it,  and  made  haste  to  lay  her 
down. 

The  time  of  his  departure  was  coming  near,  and  he 
seemed  more  anxious  the  nearer  it  came.  For  Connie 
continued  worn-looking  and  pale,  and  her  smile,  though 
evei  ready  to  greet  me  when  I  entered,  had  lost  much  of 
its  light  I  noticed,  too,  that  she  had  the  curtain  of  hsr 
window  constantly  so  arranged  as  to  shut  out  the  sea* 


CHANGED    PLANS.  593 

I  said  something  to  her  about  it  once.  Her  reply 
was — 

*'  Papa,  I  can't  bear  it  I  know  it  is  very  silly  ;  but  I 
think  I  can  make  you  understand  how  it  is.  I  was  so 
fond  of  the  sea  when  I  came  down.  It  seemed  to  lie 
close  to  my  window,  with  a  friendly  smile  ready  for  me 
every  morning  when  I  looked  out.  I  dare  say  it  is  all 
from  want  of  faith,  but  I  can't  help  it :  it  looks  so  far 
away  now,  like  a  friend  that  had  failed  me,  that  I  would 
rather  not  see  it." 

I  saw  that  the  struggling  life  within  her  w  as  grievously 
oppressed ;  that  the  things  which  surrounded  her  were 
no  longer  helpful.  Her  life  had  been  driven  as  to  its 
innermost  cave,  and  now  when  it  had  been  enticed  to 
venture  forth  and  look  abroad,  a  sudden  pall  had  de- 
scended upon  Nature.  1  could  not  help  thinking  that 
the  good  of  our  visit  to  Kilkhaven  had  come,  and  that 
evil,  from  which  I  hoped  we  might  escape,  was  following 
I  left  her,  and  sought  Turner. 

"  It  strikes  me.  Turner,"  I  said,  "  that  the  sooner  we 
get  out  of  this  the  better  for  Connie." 

**  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion.  I  think  the  very  pro- 
spect of  leaving  the  place  would  do  something  to  restore 
her.  If  she  is  so  uncomfortable  now,  think  what  it  wJl 
be  in  the  many  winter  nights  at  hand." 

**Do  you  think  it  would  be  safe  to  move  heil** 

**  Far  safer  than  to  let  her  remain.     At  the  worst,  she 

is  now  far  better  than  when  she  came.     Try  her.     Hint 

at  the  possibility  of  going  home,  and  see  how  she  will 

take  if 

t  r 


594  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH, 


"Wefi,  I  shan't  like  to  be  left  alone,  but  if  she  goes, 
they  must  all  go,  except,  perhaps,  I  might  keep  Wynnie. 
But  I  don't  know  how  her  mother  would  get  on  without 
her." 

*'  I  don't  see  why  you  should  stay  behind.  Mr  Weir 
would  be  as  glad  to  come  as  you  would  be  to  go,  and  it 
can  make  no  difference  to  Mr  Shepherd." 

It  seemed  a  very  sensible  suggestion.  I  thought  a 
moment.  Certainly  it  was  a  desirable  thing  for  both  my 
sister  and  her  husband.  They  had  no  such  reasons  as  we 
had  for  disliking  the  place,  and  it  would  enable  her  to 
avoid  the  severity  of  yet  another  winter.  I  said  as  much 
to  Turner,  and  went  back  to  Connie's  room. 

The  light  of  a  lovely  sunset  was  lying  outside  her 
window.  She  was  sitting  so  that  she  could  not  see  it 
1  would  find  out  her  feeling  in  the  matter  without  any 
preamble. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  back  to  Marshmallowg, 
Connie?"  I  asked. 

Her  countenance  flashed  into  light. 

"Oh!  dear  papa!  do  let  us  go,**  she  said.  "That 
would  be  delightful" 

"  Well,  I  think  we  can  manage  it,  if  you  will  only  get 
a  little  stronger  for  the  journey.  The  weather  is  not  so 
good  to  travel  in  as  when  we  came  down." 

*'  No.  But  I  am  ever  so  much  better,  you  know,  than 
]  was  then.** 

The  poor  girl  was  already  stronger  from  the  mere  pro 
ipect  of  going  home  again.  She  moved  restlessly  on 
her  couch,  he  If  mechanically  put  her  hand  to  the  curtain 


CHANGED    PLANS.  595 


pulled  it  aside,  looked  out,  faced  the  sun  and  the  sea,  and 
did  not  draw  back.  My  mind  was  made  up.  I  left  hei 
and  went  to  find  Ethelwyn.  She  heartily  approved  of  the 
proposal  for  Connie's  sake,  and  said  that  ix  would  be 
scarcely  less  agreeable  to  herself.  I  could  see  a  certain 
troubled  look  above  her  eyes,  however. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  Wynnie,"  I  said. 

"Yes.  It  is  hard  to  make  one  sad  for  the  sake  of  the 
rest." 

"  True.  But  it  is  one  of  the  world's  recognized  neces 
sities." 

"  No  doubt." 

"  Besides,  you  don't  suppose  Percivale  can  stay  here 
the  whole  winter.     They  must  part  some  time.** 

"  Of  course.     Only  they  did  not  expect  it  so  soon." 

But  here  my  wife  was  mistaken. 

I  went  to  my  study  to  write  to  Weir.  I  had  haidly 
finished  my  letter  when  Walter  came  to  say  that  Mr 
Percivale  wished  to  see  me.  I  told  him  to  show  him 
in. 

'*I  am  just  writing  home  to  say  that  I  want  my 
curate  to  change  places  with  me  here,  which  I  know  he 
will  be  glad  enough  to  do.  I  see  Connie  had  better  go 
home." 

"You  will  all  go  then,  I  presume,"  returned  Perci- 
vale. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  of  course.** 

"Then  I  need  not  so  much  regret  that  I  can  stay, 
no  longer.      I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  must  leave  tt^ 


59^  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"Ah  !     Going  to  London  ?"  I  said  interrogatively. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  liow  to  thank  you  for  all  youi 
kindness.  You  have  made  my  summer  something  like 
a  summer — very  different  indeed  from  what  it  would 
otherwise  have  been." 

"We  have  had  our  share  of  advantage,  and  that  u 
large  one.  We  are  all  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaint- 
ance, Mr  Percivale." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  We  shall  be  passing  through  London  within  a  week 
or  ten  days  in  all  probability.  Perhaps  you  will  allow 
us  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  some  of  your  pictures 
then?" 

His  face  flushed.  What  did  the  flush  mean  1  It  waa 
not  one  of  mere  pleasure.  There  was  confusion  and 
perplexity  in  it.     But  he  answered  at  once : 

"  I  will  show  you  them  with  pleasure.  I  fear,  how 
ever,  you  will  not  care  for  them." 

Would  this  fear  account  for  his  embarrassment?  I 
hardly  thought  it  would,  but  I  could  not  for  a  moment 
imagine,  with  his  fine  form  and  countenance  before  me, 
that  he  had  any  serious  reason  for  shrinking  from  a 
visit 

He  began  to  search  for  a  card. 

"  Oh,  I  have  your  address.  I  shall  be  sure  to  pay 
J  ou  a  visit.  But  you  will  dine  with  us  to-day,  of  course  I " 
I  said. 

*  1  shall  have  much  pleasure,"  he  answered,  and  took 
h»s  leave. 

I  finiihed  my  letter  to  Weir,  and  went  out  for  a  walk. 


CHANGED    PLANS.  597 


I  remember  particularly  the  thoughts  that  moved  in 
me  and  made  that  walk  memorable.  Indeed,  I  think  I 
remember  all  outside  events  chiefly  by  virtue  of  the  in- 
ward conditions  with  which  they  were  associated.  Mere 
outside  things  I  am  very  ready  to  forget :  moods  of  my 
own  mind  do  not  so  readily  pass  away,  and  with  the 
memory  of  some  of  them  every  outward  circumstance 
returns.  For  a  man's  life  is  where  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is — within  him.  There  are  people  who,  if  you 
ask  the  story  of  their  lives,  have  nothing  to  tell  you  but 
the  course  of  the  outv/?,rd  events  that  have  constituted, 
as  it  were,  the  clothes  of  their  history.  But  I  know,  at 
the  same  time,  that  some  of  the  most  important  crises  in 
my  own  history,  by  which  word  history  1  mean  my 
growth  towards  the  right  conditions  of  existence,  have 
been  beyond  the  grasp  and  interpretation  of  my  intellect: 
they  have  passed,  as  it  were,  without  my  consciousness 
being  awake  enough  to  lay  hold  of  their  phenomena  ; 
the  wind  had  been  blowing :  I  had  heard  the  sound  of 
it  but  knew  not  whence  it  came  nor  whither  it  went ; 
only  when  it  was  gone,  I  found  myself  more  responsible, 
more  eager  than  before. 

I  remember  this  walk  from  the  thoughts  I  had  about 
the  great  change  hanging  over  us  all  I  had  now  arrived 
at  the  prime  of  middle  life,  and  that  change  which  so 
many  would  escape  if  they  could,  but  which  will  let  no 
man  pass,  had  begun  tc  show  itself  a  real  fact  upon  the 
horizon  of  the  future.  Death  looks  so  tar  away  to  the 
young,  that  wh'.le  they  acknowledge  it  unavoidable,  the 
path  stretches  in  such  vanishin^j;  perspective  before  them. 


598  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

that  they  see  no  necessity  for  thinking  about  the  end  ol 
it  yet ;  and  far  would  I  be  from  saying  they  ought  to 
think  of  it  Life  is  the  true  object  of  a  man's  care  : 
there  is  no  occasion  to  make  himself  think  about  death. 
But  when  the  vision  of  the  inevitable  draws  nigh,  when 
it  appears  plainly  on  the  horizon,  though  but  as  a  cloud 
the  size  of  a  mans  hand,  tnen  it  is  equally  foolish  to 
meet  it  by  refusing  to  meet  it,  to  answer  the  questions 
that  will  arise  by  declining  to  think  about  them.  Indeed, 
it  is  a  question  of  life  then,  and  not  of  death.  We  want 
to  keep  fast  hold  of  our  life,  and,  in  the  strength  of  that, 
to  look  the  threatening  death  in  the  face.  But  to  my 
walk  that  morning. 

I  wandered  on  the  downs  till  I  came  to  the  place  where 
a  solitar/  lock  stands  on  the  top  of  a  cliff  looking  sea- 
ward, in  the  suggested  shape  of  a  monk  praying.  On 
the  base  on  which  he  knelt,  I  seated  myself,  and  looked 
out  over  the  Atlantic.  How  faded  the  ocean  appeared  I 
It  seemed  as  if  all  the  sunny  dyes  of  the  summer  had 
been  diluted  and  washed  with  the  fogs  of  the  coming 
winter,  when  I  thought  of  the  splendour  it  wore  when 
first  from  these  downs  I  gazed  on  the  outspread  infinitude 
of  space  and  colour. 

"What," I  said  to  myself,  *at  length,  "has  she  done 
Mnce  then?  Where  is  her  work  visible  1  She  has  riven, 
and  battered,  and  destroyed,  and  her  destruction  too  has 
passed  away.  So  worketh  Time  and  its  powers.  The 
exultation  of  my  youth  is  gone ;  my  head  is  gray  ;  Dty 
wife  is  growing  old ;  our  children  are  pushing  us  from  our 
■tools ;  we  are  yielding  to  tlie  new  generation  ;  the  glory 


CHANGED    PLANS.  599 


for  us  Lath  departed  ;  our  life  lies  weary  before  us  like 
that  sea,  and  the  night  cometh  when  we  can  no  longer 
work/' 

Something  like  this  was  passing  vaguely  through  my 
mind.  I  sat  in  a  mournful  stupor,  with  a  half-conscious 
ness  that  my  mood  was  false  and  that  I  ought  to  rouse 
myself  and  shake  it  off.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  state 
of  moral  dreaming,  which  closely  resembles  the  intel- 
lectual dreaming  in  sleep  T  went  on  in  this  false  dream- 
ful mood,  pitying  myself  like  a  child  tender  over  his  hurt 
and  nursing  his  own  cowardice,  till,  all  at  once,  "  a  Httle 
pipling  wind,"  blew  on  my  cheek.  The  morning  was  very 
still :  what  roused  that  Httle  wind,  I  cannot  tell ;  but 
what  that  Httle  wind  roused,  I  will  try  to  tell.  With  that 
breath  on  my  cheek,  something  within  me  began  to  stir. 
li  grew  and  grew  until  the  memory  of  a  certain  gloiious 
sunset  of  red  and  green  and  gold  and  blue,  which  I  had 
beheld  from  l^hese  same  heights,  dawned  within  me.  I 
knew  that  the  glory  of  my  youth  had  not  departed,  that 
the  very  power  of  recalling  with  delight  that  which  I  had 
once  felt  in  seeing,  was  proof  enough  of  that ;  I  knew 
that  I  could  believe  in  God  all  the  night  long  even  if  the 
night  were  long.  And  the  next  moment  I  thought  how 
I  had  been  reviling  in  my  fancy  God's  servant,  the  sea. 
To  how  many  vessels  had  she  not  opened  a  bounteous 
highway  through  the  waters,  with  labour,  and  food,  and 
help,  and  ministration,  glad  breezes  and  swelHng  sails, 
healthful  struggle,  cleansing  fear  and  sorrow,  yea  and 
iiieHdly  death  I  Because  she  had  been  commissioned  to 
carrv  this  one  or  that  one.  this  hundred  or  that  thouiiaiui 


600  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

of  his  own  creatures  from  one  world  to  another,  was  I  to 
revile  the  servant  of  a  grand  and  gracious  Master]  It 
was  blameless  in  Connie  to  feel  the  late  trouble  so  deeply 
that  she  could  not  be  glad  :  she  had  not  had  the  experi- 
ence of  life,  yea,  of  God,  that  I  had  had ;  she  must  be 
helped  from  without.  But  for  me,  it  was  shameful  that 
(,  who  knew  the  heart  of  my  Master,  to  whom  at  least 
he  had  so  often  shown  his  truth,  should  ever  be  doleful 
and  oppressed.  Yet  even  me  he  had  now  helped  from 
within.  The  glory  of  existence  as  the  child  of  the  Infi- 
nite had  again  dawned  upon  me.  The  first  hour  of  the 
evening  of  my  life  had,  indeed,  arrived  ;  the  shadows  had 
begun  to  grow  long,  so  long  that  I  had  begun  to  mark 
their  length  ;  this  last  little  portion  of  my  history  had 
vanished,  leaving  its  few  grey  ashes  behind  in  the  crucible 
of  my  Hfe ;  and  the  final  evening  must  come,  when  all 
my  Ufe  would  lie  behind  me,  and  all  the  memory  of  it 
return,  with  its  mornings  of  gold  and  red,  with  its  evenings 
of  purple  and  green ;  with  its  dashes  of  storm,  and  its 
foggy  glooms ;  with  its  white-winged  aspirations,  its  duU- 
ted  passions,  its  creeping  envies  in  brown  and  black  and 
earthy  yellow.  But  from  all  the  accusations  of  my  con- 
science, I  would  turn  me  to  the  Lord,  for  he  was  called 
Jesus  because  he  should  save  his  people  from  their  sins. 
Then  I  thought  what  a  grand  gift  it  would  be  to  give  his 
people  the  power  hereafter  to  fight  the  consequences  of 
their  sins.  Anyhow,  I  would  tiust  the  Father,  who  loved 
me  with  a  perfect  love,  to  lead  the  soul  he  had  made, 
had  compelled  to  be,  through  the  gates  of  the  death-hinh, 
into  the  light  of  life  beyond.     I  would  cast  on  him  the 


CHANGED    PLANS.  6ol 


care,  humbly  challenge  him  with  the  responsibility  he 
had  himself  undertaken,  praying  only  for  perfect  confi- 
dence in  him,  absolute  submission  to  his  will. 

I  rose  from  my  seat  beside  the  praying  monk  and 
walked  on.  The  thought  of  seeing  my  own  people 
again  filled  me  with  gladness.  I  would  leave  those  I 
had  here  learned  to  love  with  regret;  but  I  trusted  I 
had  taught  them  something,  and  they  had  taught  me 
much ;  therefore  there  could  be  no  end  to  our  relation 
to  each  other — it  could  not  be  broken,  for  it  was  in  the 
Lordf  which  alone  can  give  security  to  any  tie.  I  should 
not,  therefore,  sorrow  as  if  I  were  to  see  their  faces  no 
more. 

I  now  took  my  farewell  of  that  sea  and  those  cliffs 
I  should  see  them  often  ere  we  went,  but  I  should  not 
feel  so  near  them  again.  Even  this  parting  said  that  I 
must  "sit  loose  to  the  world." — an  old  Puritan  phra?e, 
I  suppose ;  tnat  1  tould  gather  up  only  its  Uiies,  treasure 
its  best  things,  and  must  let  all  the  rest  go ;  that  those 
things  I  called  mine,  earth,  sky,  and  sea,  home,  books, 
the  treasured  gifts  of  friends,  had  all  to  leave  me,  belong 
to  others,  and  help  to  educate  them.  I  should  not  need 
them.  I  should  have  my  people,  my  souls,  my  beloved 
faces  tenfold  more,  and  could  well  afford  to  part  with 
these.  Why  should  I  mind  this  chain  passing  to  my 
eldest  boy,  when  it  was  only  his  mothers  hair,  and  1 
should  have  his  mother  still  ? 

So  my  thoughts  went  on  thinking  themselves,  until  at 
length  I  yielded  passively  to  their  flow. 

I  found  VV)  .mie  looking^  very  grave  when  I  went  into 


602  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH 

the  drawing-room.  Her  mother  was  there  too,  and  Mr 
Percivale.  It  seemed  rather  a  moody  party.  They 
\\'akened  up  a  Httle,  however,  after  I  entered,  and  before 
dinner  was  over,  we  were  all  chatting  together  merrily. 

"  How  is  Connie  r'  I  asked  Ethelwyn. 

"Wonderfully  better  already,'*  she  answered. 

**  I  think  everybody  seems  better,"  I  said.  **  The  very 
idea  of  home  seems  reviving  to  us  all." 

Wynnie  darted  a  quick  glance  at  me,  caught  my  eyes, 
which  v/as  more  than  she  had  intended,  and  blushed ; 
sv)ug]u  refuge  in  a  bewildered  glance  at  Percivale,  caught 
his  eyes  in  turn,  and  blushed  yet  deeper.  He  plunged 
instantly  into  conversation,  not  without  a  certain  invol- 
untary sparkle  in  those  eyes. 

"Did  you  go  to  see  Mrs  Stokes  this  morning?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  She  does  not  want  much  visit- 
ing now;  she  is  going  about  her  work,  apparently  in 
good  health.  Her  hisband  says  she  is  not  like  the  same 
woman ;  and  I  hope  he  means  that  in  more  senses  than 
one,  though  I  do  not  choose  to  ask  him  any  questions 
about  his  wife." 

I  did  my  best  to  keep  up  the  conversation,  but  every 
now  and  then  after  this  it  fell  like  a  wind  that  would  not 
blow.  I  withdrew  to  my  study.  Percivale  and  Wynnie 
went  out  for  a  walk.  The  next  morning  he  left  by  the 
coach — early.     Turner  went  with  him. 

Wynnie  did  not  seem  very  much  dejected.  I  thought 
that  perhaps  the  prospect  of  meeting  him  again  in 
London  kept  her  up. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE   STUDIO. 

WILL  not  linger  over  our  preparations  or  out 
leave-takings.  The  most  ponderous  of  the 
former  were  those  of  the  two  boys,  wio, 
as  they  had  wanted  to  bring  down  a  chest 
as  big  as  a  corn-bin,  full  of  lumber,  now  wanted  to 
take  home  two  or  three  boxes  filled  with  pebbles,  great 
oyster-shells,  and  sea-weed. 

Weir,  as  I  had  expected,  was  quite  pleased  to  make 
the  exchange.  An  early  day  had  been  fixed  for  his 
arrival ;  for  I  thought  it  might  be  of  service  to  him  to  be 
introduced  to  the  field  of  his  labours.  Before  he  came, 
I  had  gone  about  among  tlie  people,  explaining  to  them 
some  of  my  reasons  for  leaving  them  sooner  than  I  liad 
intended,  and  telling  them  a  little  about  my  successor, 
ihat  he  might  not  appear  among  them  quite  as  a  stran- 
ger. He  was  much  gratified  by  their  reception  of  him, 
and  nad  no  tear  of  not  tmding  himself  quite  at  home  with 


04  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

.hem.  I  promised,  if  I  could  comfortably  manage  it,  t<i 
9ay  them  a  sliort  visit  the  following  summer,  and,  as  the 
«veatlier  was  now  getting  quite  cold,  hastened  our  pre- 
parations for  departure. 

I  could  have  wished  that  Turner  had  been  with  us  on 
the  journey,  but  he  had  been  absent  from  his  cure  to  the 
full  extent  that  his  conscience  would  permit,  and  I  had 
not  urged  him.  He  would  be  there  to  receive  us,  and 
we  had  got  so  used  to  the  management  of  Connie,  that 
we  did  not  feel  much  anxiety  about  the  travelling.  We 
resolved,  if  she  seemed  siiong  enough  as  we  went  along, 
to  go  right  through  London,  making  a  few  days  there  the 
only  break  in  the  transit 

It  was  a  bright  cold  morning  when  we  started.  But 
Connie  could  now  bear  the  air  so  well,  that  we  set  out 
Avith  the  carriage  open,  nor  had  we  occasion  to  close  it 
The  first  part  of  our  railway  journey  was  very  pleasant 
But  when  we  drew  near  London,  we  entered  a  thick  fog, 
and  before  we  arrived,  a  small  dense  November  rain  was 
falling.  Connie  looked  a  little  dispirited,  partly  from 
weariness,  but  no  doubt  from  the  change  in  the  weather. 

"  Not  very  cheerful,  this,  Connie,  my  dear,"  I  said. 

*'  No,  papa,"  she  answered ;  "  but  we  are  going  home, 
you  know." 

Going  home.  It  set  me  thinking — as  I  had  often  been 
set  thinking  before,  always  with  fresh  discovery  and  a 
new  colour  on  the  dawning  sky  of  hope.  I  lay  back  m 
the  carriage  and  thought  how  the  November  fog  this 
evening  in  London,  was  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
deatli  we  had  to  go  through  on  the  way  home.     A  shadow 


THE    STUDIO.  05 


like  this  would  fall  upon  me ;  the  world  would  grow  dark 
and  life  grow  weary;  but  I  should  know  it  was  the  last 
of  the  way  home. 

Then  I  began  to  question  myself  wherein  the  idea  of 
this  home  consisted.  I  knew  that  my  soul  had  ever  yet 
felt  the  discomfort  of  strangeness,  more  or  less,  in  the 
midst  of  its  greatest  blessedness.  I  knew  that  as  the 
thought  of  water  to  the  thirsty  sou/,  for  it  is  the  soul  far 
i.iore  than  the  body  that  thirsts  even  for  the  material 
water,  such  is  the  thought  of  home  to  the  wanderer  in  a 
strange  country.  As  the  weary  soul  pines  for  sleep,  and 
every  heart  for  the  cure  of  its  own  bitterness,  so  my  heart 
and  soul  had  often  pined  for  their  home.  Did  I  know, 
I  asked  myself,  where  or  what  that  home  was  1  It  could 
consist  in  no  change  of  place  or  of  circumstance ;  no 
mere  absence  of  care  ;  no  accumulation  of  repose ;  no 
blessed  communion  even  with  those  whom  my  soul 
loved :  in  the  midst  of  it  all  I  should  lie  longing  for  a 
homelier  home — one  into  which  I  might  enter  with  a 
sense  of  infinitely  more  absolute  peace  than  a  conscious- 
child  could  know  in  the  arms,  upon  the  bosom  of  his 
mother.  In  the  closest  contact  of  human  soul  with 
human  soul,  when  air  the  atmosphere  of  thought  was 
rosy  with  love,  again  and  yet  again  on  the  far  horizon 
would  the  dim,  lurid  flame  of  unrest  shoot  for  a  moment 
through  the  enchanted  air,  and  Psyche  would  know  that 
not  yet  had  she  reached  her  home.  As  I  thought  this  I 
lifted  my  eyes,  and  saw  those  of  my  wife  and  Connie 
fixed  on  mine,  as  if  they  were  reproaching  me  for  saying 
in  my  soul  that  I  could  not  be  quite  at  home  witii  them. 


6o6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

Then  I  said  in  my  heart,  "  Come  home  with  me,  beloved 
— there  is  but  one  home  for  us  all.  When  we  find — in 
proportion  as  each  of  us  finds — that  home,  shall  we  be 
gardens  of  delight  to  each  other — little  chambers  of  rest 
— galleries  of  pictures — wells  of  water." 

Again,  what  was  this  home?  God  himself.  His 
thoughts,  his  will,  his  love,  his  judgments,  are  man's 
home.  To  think  his  thoughts,  to  choose  his  will,  to 
love  his  loves,  to  judge  his  judgments,  and  thus  to  know 
that  he  is  in  us,  with  us,  is  to  be  at  home.  And  to  pass 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  is  the  way 
home,  but  only  thus,  that  as  all  changes  have  hitherto 
led  us  nearer  to  this  home,  the  knowledge  of  God,  so 
this  greatest  of  all  outward  changes — for  it  is  but  ar* 
outward  change — will  surely  usher  us  into  a  region  where 
there  will  be  fresh  possibilities  of  drawing  nigh  in  heart, 
soul,  and  mind  to  the  Father  of  us.  It  is  the  father, 
the  mother,  that  make  for  the  child  his  home.  Indeed. 
I  doubt  if  the  home-idea  is  complete  to  the  parents  of  a 
family  themselves  when  they  remember  that  their  fathers 
and  mothers  have  vanished. 

At  this  point  something  rose  in  me  seeking  utter- 
ance. 

"  Won't  it  be  delightful,  wife,"  I  began,  "  to  see  out 
fathers  and  mothers  such  a  long  way  back  in  heaven?** 

But  Ethelwyn's  face  gave  so  little  response,  that  I  felt 
at  once  how  dreadful  a  thing  it  was  not  to  have  had  a 
good  father  or  mother.  I  do  not  know  what  would 
have  Itcome  of  me  but  for  a  good  father.  I  wonder 
Im)w  anybody  ever  can  be  good  that  has  not  had  a  good 


THE    STUDIO.  607 


father.  How  dreadful  not  to  be  a  good  father  or  gooti 
mother !  Ever)*  father  who  is  not  good,  every  mother 
who  is  not  good,  just  makes  it  as  impossible  to  believe 
in  God  as  it  can  be  made.  But  he  is  our  one  good 
Father,  and  does  not  leave  us,  even  should  our  fathers 
and  mothers  have  thus  forsaken  us,  and  left  him  without 
a  witness. 

Here  the  evil  odour  of  brick-burning  invaded  my 
nostrils,  and  I  knew  that  London  was  about  us.  A  few 
moments  after,  we  reached  the  station,  where  a  carriage 
was  waiting  to  take  us  to  our  hotel. 

Dreary  was  the  change  from  the  stillness  and  sunshine 
C/f  Kilkhaven  to  the  fog  and  noise  of  London  ;  but 
Connie  slept  better  that  night  than  she  had  slept  for  a 
good  many  nights' before. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  1  said  to  Wynnie, 

"  I  am  going  to  see  Mr  Percivale's  studio,  my  dear : 
have  you  any  objection  to  going  with  mel" 

"No,  papa,"  she  answered  blushing.  **I  have  never 
Been  an  artist's  studio  in  my  life." 

"  Come  along  then.  Get  your  bonnet  at  once.  It 
rains,  but  we  shall  take  a  cab,  and  it  won't  matter.'* 

She  ran  off,  and  was  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  We  gave 
tiie  driver  directions,  and  set  out.  It  was  a  long  drive. 
At  length  he  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  very  common-look- 
ing house,  in  a  very  dreary-looking  street,  in  which  no 
man  could  possibly  identify  his  own  door  except  by  the 
number.  I  knocked.  A  woman  who  looked  at  once 
dirty  and  cross,  the  former  probably  the  cause  of  the 
latter,  opened  the  door,  gave  a  bare  a?'-,cnt  to  my  quet^ 


6o8  THE   SEABOARD   PARISH. 

tion  vvhetlier  Mr  Percivale  was  at  home,  withdrew  to  her 
clep  with  \he  words  "second-floor,"  and  left  us  to  find 
our  own  way  up^the  two  flights  of  stairs.  This,  however, 
involved  no  great  difficulty.  We  knocked  at  the  door  of 
the  front-room.  A  well-known  voice  cried,  **  Come  in,** 
and  we  entered. 

Percivale,  in  a  short  velvet  coat,  with  his  palette  o»* 
his  thumb,  advanced  to  meet  us  cordially.  His  face  wore 
a  sHght  flush,  which  I  attributed  solely  to  pleasure,  and 
nothing  to  any  awkwardness  in  receiving  us  in  such  a 
poor  place  as  he  occupied.  I  cast  my  eyes  round  the 
room.  Any  romantic  notions  Wynnie  might  have  in- 
dulged concerning  the  marvels  of  a  studio,  must  have 
paled  considerably  at  the  first  glance  around  Percivale's 
room — ^j)lainly  the  abode  if  not  of  pot^erty,  then  of  self- 
denial,  although  I  suspected  both.  A  common  room, 
with  no  carpet  save  a  square  in  front  of  the  fire-place ; 
no  curtains  except  a  piece  of  something  like  drugget 
nailed  flat  across  all  the  lower  half  of  the  window  to 
make  the  light  fall  from  upwards ;  two  or  three  horse- 
hair chairs,  nearly  worn  out ;  a  table  in  a  corner,  littered 
with  books  and  papers;  a  horrible  lay-figure,  at  the 
piesent  moment  dressed  apparently  for  a  scarecrow ;  a 
large  easel,  on  which  stood  a  half-finished  oil-painting — 
these  constituted  almost  the  whole  furniture  of  the  room. 
With  his  pocket-handkerchief  Percivale  dusted  one  chair 
for  Wynnie  and  another  for  me.  Then  standing  before 
us,  he  said : 

"  This  is  a  very  shabby  place  to  receive  you  in,  Miss 
Walton,  but  it  is  all  I  have  got." 


THE    STUDIO.  609 


**  A  man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of  the 
tilings  he  possesses,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Percivale.  "I  hope  not  It  is 
well  for  me  it  should  not." 

"  It  is  well  for  the  richest  man  in  England  that  it 
should  not,"  I  returned.  "  If  it  were  not  so,  the  man 
who  could  eat  most  would  be  the  most  blessed." 

"There  are  people,  even  of  my  acquaintance,  how- 
ever, who  seem  to  think  it  does." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  happily  their  thinking  so  will  not 
make  it  so  even  for  themselves." 

"  Have  you  been  very  busy  since  you  left  us,  Mr 
j'ercivale?"  asked  Wynnie. 

"  Tolerably,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  have  not  much  to 
."'.ow  for  it.  That  on  the  easel  is  alL  I  hardly  like  to 
1  jt.  you  look  at  it,  though." 

'*  Why  ]"  asked  Wynnie. 

"  First,  because  the  subject  is  painful.  Next,  because 
it  is  so  unfinished  that  none  but  a  painter  could  do  it 
justice." 

"  But  why  should  you  paint  subjects  you  do  not  like 
people  to  look  at  V 

"  I  very  much  want  people  to  look  at  them.* 

"Why  not  us,  then?"  said  Wynnie. 

•*  Because  you  do  not  need  to  be  pained.** 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  good  for  you  to  pain  anybody  f* 
1  said. 

"  Good  is  done  by  pain — is  it  not?"  he  asked. 

"Undoubtedly.  But  whether  we  are  wise  enough  to 
know  when  and  where  and  how  much  is  the  question.* 


tQ 


6lO  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

"Of  course  I  do  not  make  the  pain  my  object" 

"  If  it  comes  only  as  a  necessary  accompaniment, 
that  may  alter  the  matter  greatly,"  I  said  "  But  still  I 
am  not  sure  that  anything  in  which  the  pain  predomi- 
nates can  be  useful  in  the  best  way." 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  returned. — "Will  you  look  at  the 
daub?" 

"With  much  pleasure,"  I  replied,  and  we  rose  and 
stood  before  the  easel.  Percivale  made  no  remark,  but 
left  us  to  find  out  what  the  picture  meant.  Nor  had 
I  long  to  look  before  I  understood  it — in  a  measure  a< 
least 

It  represented  a  garret-room  in  a  wretchedly  ruinous 
condition.  The  plaster  had  come  away  in  several 
places,  and  through  between  the  laths  in  one  spot  hung 
the  tail  of  a  great  rat  In  a  dark  corner  lay  a  man 
dying.  A  woman  sat  by  his  side,  with  her  eyes  fixed, 
not  on  his  face,  though  she  held  his  hand  in  hers,  but 
on  the  open  door,  where  in  the  gloom  you  could  just 
see  the  struggles  of  two  undertakers  men  to  get  the 
coffin  past  the  turn  of  the  landing  toward  the  door. 
Through  the  window  there  was  one  peep  of  the  blue 
sky,  whence  a  ray  of  sunlight  fell  on  the  one  scarlet 
blossom  of  a  geranium  in  a  broken  pot  on  the  window- 
sill  outside. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  did  not  like  to  show  it,"  1 
said.  "How  can  you  bear  to  paint  such  a  dreadful 
picture  1" 

"  It  is  a  true  one.     It  only  represents  a  facu** 

"  All  facts  have  not  a  right  to  be  represented  " 


THE    STtTDIO.  6lJ 


"Surely  you  would  not  get  rid  of  painful  things  b> 
huddling  them  out  of  sight?" 

**  No ;  nor  yet  by  gloating  upon  them." 

**  You  will  believe  me  that  it  gives  me  anything  but 
pleasure  to  paint  such  pictures — as  far  as  the  subject 
goes,"  he  said  with  some  discomposure. 

"  Of  course.  I  know  you  well  enough  by  this  time 
to  know  that  But  no  one  could  hang  it  on  his  wall 
who  would  not  either  gloat  on  suffering  or  grow  callous 
to  it.  Whence  then  would  come  the  good  I  cannot 
doubt  you  propose  to  yourself  as  your  object  in  painting 
the  picture?  If  it  had  come  into  my  possession,  I 
^ould  " 

J*  Put  it  in  the  fire,"  suggested  Percivale,  with  a  strange 
«mile. 

"  No.  Still  less  would  I  sell  it  I  would  hang  it  up 
with  a  curtain  before  it,  and  only  look  at  it  now  and 
then  when  I  thought  my  heart  was  in  danger  of  growing 
hardened  to  the  sufferings  of  my  fellow-men,  and  forget- 
ting that  they  need  the  Saviour.'* 

"I  could  not  wish  it  a  better  fate.  That  would 
answer  my  end." 

"Would  it  now?  Is  it  not  rather  those  who  care 
little  or  nothing  about  such  matters  that  you  would  like 
to  influence  ?  Would  you  be  content  with  one  solitary 
person  like  me  t  And,  remember,  I  wouldn't  buy  it.  I 
would  rather  not  have  it  I  could  hardly  bear  to  know 
it  was  in  my  house.  I  am  certain  you  cannot  do  people 
good  by  showing  them  only  the  painful.  Make  it  aa 
painful  as  you  will,  but  put  some  hope  into  it,  something 


6l2  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

to  show  that  action  is  woith  taking  in  the  affair.  From 
mere  suffering  people  will  turn  away,  and  you  cannot 
blame  them.  Every  show  of  it  without  hinting  at  some 
door  of  escape,  only  urges  them  to  forget  it  alL  Why 
should  they  be  pained  if  it  can  do  no  good  1 " 

"  For  the  sake  of  sympathy,  I  should  say,"  answered 
Percivale. 

"  They  would  rejoin,  *  It  is  only  a  picture.  Come 
along.'  No ;  give  people  hope,  if  you  would  have  them 
act  at  all — in  anything." 

"I  was  almost  hv^ping  you  would  read  the  picture 
rather  differently.  You  see  there  is  a  bit  of  blue  sky  up 
there,  and  a  bit  of  sunshiny  scarlet  in  the  window.** 

He  looked  at  me  curiously  as  he  spoke. 

**  I  can  read  it  so  for  myself,  and  have  metamorphosed 
its  meaning  so.  But  you  only  put  in  the  sky  and  the 
scarlet  to  heighten  the  perplexity  and  make  the  other 
look  more  terrible." 

"Now  1  know  that  as  an  artist  I  have  succeeded, 
however  I  may  have  failed  otherwise.  I  did  so  mean  it 
But  knowing  you  would  dislike  the  picture,  I  almost 
hoped,  in  my  cowardice,  as  I  said,  that  you  would  read 
your  own  meaning  into  it" 

Wynnie  had  not  said  a  word.  As  I  turned  away  from 
the  picture,  I  ^uw  that  she  v/as  looking  quite  distressed, 
but  whether  by  the  picture,  or  the  freedom  with  which 
1  had  remarked  upon  it,  I  do  not  know.  My  eyes  fall- 
ing on  a  Uttle  sketch  in  sepia,  I  began  to  examine  it. 
In  the  hope  of  finding  something  more  pleasant  to  say. 
I  perceived  in  a  moment,  however,  that  it  was  nearl| 


THE    STUDia  613 


the  same  thought,  only  treated  in  a  gentler  and  more 
poetic  mode.  A  girl  lay  dying  on  her  bed.  A  youth 
held  her  hand.  A  torrent  of  summer  sunshine  fell 
through  the  window,  and  made  a  lake  of  glory  upon  the 
floor.     I  turned  away. 

"You  like  that  better,  don't  you,  papal"  said  WvMiie, 
tremulously. 

**  It  is  beautiful,  certainly,"  I  answered,  "  And  if  it 
were  only  one,  I  should  enjoy  it — as  a  mood.  But  com- 
ing after  the  other,  it  seems  but  the  same  thing  more 
weakly  embodied." 

I  confess  I  was  a  little  vexed.  For  I  had  got  much 
interested  in  Percivale,  for  his  own  sake,  as  well  as  for 
my  daughter's,  and  I  had  expected  better  things  from 
him.     But  I  saw  that  I  had  gone  too  far. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Percivale,"  I  said.  **  I  feaj 
1  have  been  too  free  in  my  remarks.  I  know,  likewise, 
that  I  am  a  clergyman  and  not  a  painter,  and  therefore 
incapable  of  giving  the  praise  which  I  have  little  doubt 
your  art  at  least  deserves." 

"  I  trust  that  honesty  cannot  offend  me,  however  much 
and  justly  it  may  pain  me.'* 

"  But  now  I  have  said  my  worst,  I  should  much  like 
o  see  what  else  you  have  at  hand  to  show  me." 

"  Unfortunately  I  have  too  much  at  hand.  Let  me 
see." 

He  strode  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  where  several 
pictures  were  leaning  against  the  wall  with  their  faces 
turned  towards  it.  From  these  he  chose  one,  but  before 
showing  it  fitted  it  into  an  empty  frame  that  stood  be* 


6l4  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

side.  He  then  brought  it  forward  and  set  it  on  the 
easel.  I  will  describe  it,  and  then  my  reader  will  under- 
stand the  admiration  which  broke  from  me  after  I  haa 
regarded  it  for  a  time. 

A  dark  hill  rose  against  the  evening  sky  which  shone 
through  a  few  thin  pines  on  its  top.  "  Along  a  road  on  the 
hill-side,  four  squires  bore  a  dying  knight — a  man  pasi 
the  middle  age.  One  behind  carried  his  helm,  and  an- 
other led  his  horse,  whose  fine  head  only  appeared  in  the 
picture.  The  head  and  countenance  of  the  knight  were 
very  noble,  telling  of  many  a  battle,  and  ever  for  the 
right.  The  last  had  doubtless  been  gained,  for  one 
might  read  victory  as  well  as  peace  in  the  dying  look. 
The  party  had  just  reached  the  edge  of  a  steep  descent, 
from  which  you  saw  the  valley  below,  with  the  last  oi 
the  harvest  just  being  reaped,  while  the  shocks  stood  all 
about  in  the  fields,  under  the  place  of  the  sunset  The 
sun  had  been  down  for  some  little  time.  There  was  on 
gold  left  in  the  sky,  only  a  little  dull  saffron ;  but  plenty 
of  that  lovely  liquid  green  of  the  autumn  sky,  divided 
with  a  few  streaks  of  pale  rose.  The  depth  of  the  sky 
overhead,  which  you  could  not  see  for  the  arrangement 
of  the  picture,  was  mirrored  lovelily  in  a  piece  of  water 
that  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  valley. 

"  My  dear  fellow ! "  I  cried,  "  why  did  you  not  show 
me  this  first,  and  save  me  from  saying  so  many  unkind 
things  ?  Here  is  a  picture  to  my  own  heart.  It  is  glori- 
ous. Look  here,  Wynnie,"  I  went  on.  "  You  see  it  is 
evening.  The  sun's  work  is  done,  and  re  has  set  in 
glory,  leavmg  his  good   name   behind  hmi    in  a  lovelj 


THE    STUDia  615 


harmony  of  colour.  The  old  knight's  work  is  done  too ; 
his  day  has  set  in  the  storm  of  battle,  and  he  is  lying 
lapt  in  the  coming  peace.  They  are  bearing  him  home 
to  his  couch  and  his  grave.  Look  at  their  faces  in  the 
dusky  light  They  are  all  mourning  for  and  honouring 
the  Hfe  that  is  ebbing  away.  But  he  is  gathered  to  his 
fathers  like  a  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe ;  and  so  the  harvest 
stands  golden  in  the  valley  beneath.  The  picture  would 
not  be  complete,  however,  if  it  did  not  tell  us  of  the 
deep  heaven  overhead,  the  symbol  of  that  heaven 
whither  he  who  has  done  his  work  is  bound :  what 
R  lovely  idea  to  represent  it  by  means  of  the  water, 
the  heaven  embodying  itself  in  the  earth,  as  it  were, 
that  we  may  see  it !  And  observe  how  that  dusky 
hillside,  and  those  tall  slender  mournful-looking  pines, 
with  that  sorrowful  sky  between,  lead  the  eye  and 
point  the  heart  upward  towards  that  heaven.  It  is  in- 
deed a  grand  picture — full  of  feeling — a  picture  and  a 
parable."  * 

I  looked  at  the  girl.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears- 
cither  called  forth  by  the  picture  itself,  or  by  the  pleasure 
of  finding  something  of  Percivale's  work  appreciated  by 
me  who  had  spoken  so  hardly  of  his  other  pictures. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you  like  it,"  she 
•aid. 

"  Like  it ! "  I  returned.  "  I  am  simply  delighted  with 
it — more  than  I  can  express — so  much  delighted  that 
if  I  could  have  this  alongside  of  it,  I  should  not  mind 

•  This  is  a  description,  from  memory  only,  of  a  picture  ■^^intci 
hf  A  rthur  Hughes. 


6l6  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

hanging  that  other,  that  hopeless  garret,  on  the  most 
public  wall  I  have." 

*'  Then,"  said  Wynnie  bravely,  though  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "  you  confess,  don't  you,  papa,  that  you  were  fco 
hard  on  Mr  Percivale  at  first  ]" 

**  Not  too  hard  on  his  picture,  my  dear;  and  that  was 
all  he  had  yet  given  me  to  judge  by.  No  man  should 
paint  a  picture  like  that.  You  are  not  bound  to  dis- 
seminate hopelessness ;  for  where  there  is  no  hope,  there 
can  be  no  sense  of  duty." 

"  But  surely,  papa,  Mr  Percivale  has  some  sense  of 
duty,"  said  Wynnie,  in  an  almost  angry  tone. 

"  Assuredly,  my  love.  Therefore  I  argue  that  he  has 
some  hope ;  and  therefore  again  that  he  has  no  right  to 
publish  such  a  picture." 

At  the  word  publish  Percivale  smiled.  But  Wynnie 
went  on  with  her  defence. 

*'  But  you  see,  papa,  that  Mr  Percivale  does  not  paint 
such  pictures  only.     Look  at  the  other." 

**  Yes,  my  dear.  But  pictures  are  not  like  poems, 
lying  side  by  side  in  the  same  book,  so  that  the  one  can 
counteract  the  other.  The  one  of  these  might  go  to  the 
stormy  Hebrides,  and  the  other  to  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
But  even  then,  I  should  be  strongly  inclined  to  criticize 
the  poem,  whatever  position  it  stood  in,  that  had  nothing^ 
positively  nothing,  of  the  aurora  in  it.** 

Here  let  me  interrupt  the  course  of  our  conversation 
to  illustrate  it  by  a  remark  on  a  poem  which  has 
appeared  within  the  last  twelvemonth  from  the  pen  of 
the  greatest  living  poet,  and  one  who»  if  I  may  dare  to 


THE    STUDIO.  617 


judge,  will  continue  the  greatest  for  many,  many  years  to 
come.  It  is  only  a  little  song,  "  I  stood  on  a  tower  in 
the  wet*'  I  have  found  few  men  who,  whether  from  the 
influence  of  those  prints  which  are  always  on  the  outlook 
for  something  to  ridicule,  or  from  some  other  cause,  did 
not  laugh  at  the  poem.  I  thought  and  think  it  a  lovely 
poem,  although  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  the  transposition 
of  words  in  the  last  two  lines.  But  I  do  not  approve  of 
the  poem,  just  because  there  is  no  hope  in  it.  It  lacks 
that  touch  or  hint  of  red  which  is  as  essential,  I  think,  to 
every  poem  as  to  every  picture — the  life-blood — the  one 
pure  colour.  In  his  hopeful  moods,  let  a  man  put  on 
his  singing  robes,  and  chant  aloud  the  words  of  gladness 
— or  of  grief,  I  care  not  which — to  his  fellows;  in  his 
hours  of  hopelessness,  let  him  utter  his  thoughts  only  to 
his  inarticulate  violin,  or  in  the  evanescent  sounds  of 
any  other  stringed  instrument ;  let  him  commune  with  his 
own  heart  on  his  bed,  and  be  still ;  let  him  speak  to  God 
face  to  face  if  he  may — only  he  cannot  do  that  and 
continue  hopeless  j  but  let  him  not  sing  aloud  in  such  a 
mood  into  the  hearts  of  his  fellows,  for  he  cannot  do 
them  much  good  thereby.  If  it  were  a  fact  that  there  is 
no  hope,  it  would  not  be  a  truth.  No  doubt,  if  it  were 
a  fact,  it  ought  to  be  known ;  but  wlio  will  dare  be  con- 
fident that  there  is  no  hope?  Therefore,  I  say,  let  the 
hopeless  moods,  at  least,  if  not  the  hopeless  men,  be 
silent 

"  He  could  refuse  to  let  the  one  go  without  the  other," 
Slid  Wynnie. 

•*  Now  you  are  talking  like  a  child,  Wynnie,  as  indeed 


6l8  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 


all  partisans  do  at  the  best.  He  might  sell  them  to- 
gether, but  the  owner  would  part  them. — If  you  will  allow 
me,  I  will  come  and  see  both  the  pictures  again  to- 
morrow." 

Percivale  assured  me  of  welcome,  and  we  parted,  I 
declining  to  look  at  any  more  pictures  that  day,  but  not 
till  we  had  arranged  that  he  should  dine  with  us  in  tb« 
cyenii^ 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

HOME   AGAIN. 

WILL  not  detain  my  readers  with  the  record 
of  the  few  days  we  spent  in  London.  In  writ- 
ing the  account  of  it,  as  in  the  experience  of 
the  time  itself,  I  feel  that  I  am  near  home,  and 
grow  the  more  anxious  to  reach  it.  Ah  I  I  am  growing 
a  little  anxious  after  another  home,  too ;  for  the  house 
of  my  tabernacle  is  faUing  to  ruins  about  me.  What  a 
word  home  is  !  To  think  that  God  has  made  the  world 
no  that  you  have  only  to  be  born  in  a  certain  place,  and 
live  long  enough  in  it  to  get  at  the  secret  of  it,  and  hence- 
forth that  place  is  to  you  a  home  with  all  the  wonderful 
'aeaning  in  the  word.  Thus  the  whole  earth  is  a  home 
to  the  race  ;  for  every  spot  of  it  shares  in  the  feeling : 
6ome  one  of  the  family  loves  it  as  his  home.  How  rich 
the  earth  seems  when  we  so  regard  it — crowded  with  the 
loves  of  home  1  Yet  I  am  now  getting  ready  to  go  homt 
—to  leave  this  world  of  homes,  and  go  home.     When  I 


620  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

reach  that  home,  shall  I  even  then  seek  yet  to  go  home ! 
Even  then,  I  believe,  I  shall  seek  a  yet  warmer,  deeper, 
truer  home  in  the  deeper  knowledge  of  God — in  the  truer 
xove  of  my  fellow-man.  Eternity  will  be,  my  heart  and 
m/  aith  tell  me,  a  travelling  homeward,  but  in  jubilation 
r  •'!  confidence  and  the  vision  of  the  beloved. 

»'/hen  we  had  laid  Connie  once  more  in  her  own  room, 
at  least  the  room  which  since  her  illness  had  come  to  be 
called  hers,  I  went  up  to  my  study.  The  familiar  faces 
of  my  books  welcomed  me.  I  threw  myself  in  my  read- 
ing-chair, and  gazed  around  me  with  pleasure.  I  felt  it 
S'"  homely  here.  All  my  old  friends — whom  somehow  I 
hoped  to  see  some  day — present  there  in  the  spirit  ready 
to  talk  with  me  any  moment  when  I  was  in  the  mood, 
making  no  claim  upon  my  attention  when  I  was  not !  I 
felt  as  if  I  should  like,  when  the  hour  should  come,  to 
die  in  that  chair,  and  pass  into  the  society  of  the  wit- 
nesses in  the  presence  of  the  tokens  they  had  left  behind 
them. 

I  heard  shouts  on  the  stair,  and  in  rushed  the  two 
boys. 

"  Papa  I  papa  I*'  they  were  crying  together. 

**  What  is  the  matter?" 

**  We  Ve  found  the  big  chest  just  where  we  left  it.* 

*  Well,  did  you  expect  it  would  have  taken  itsel/ 
otr?" 

"  Bui  there  's  everything  in  it  just  as  we  left  it." 

"  Were  you  afraid  then  that,  the  moment  you  left  it,  ll 
would  turn  itself  upside  down,  and  empty  itself  of  all  itt 
contents  on  the  floor!" 


HOME    AGAIN.  6Zt 


They  laughed,  but  apparently  with  no  very  keen  appre 
ciation  of  the  attempt  at  a  joke. 

"  Well,  papa,  I  did  not  think  anything  about  it ;  hut- 
but — but — there  everything  is  as  we  left  it" 

With  this  triumphant  answer,  they  turned  and  hurried 
a  Httle  abashed,  out  of  the  room  ;  but  not  many  moment 
elapsed  before  the  sounds  that  arose  from  them  were  suf 
ficiently  reassuring  as  to  the  state  of  their  spirits.  When 
they  were  gone,  I  forgot  my  books  in  the  attempt  to 
penetrate  and  understand  the  condition  of  my  boys 
thoughts.  And  I  soon  came  to  see  that  they  were  right 
and  I  was  wrong.  It  was  the  movement  of  that  unde- 
veloped something  in  us  which  makes  it  possible  for  us 
in  everything  to  give  thanks.  It  was  the  wonder  of  the 
discovery  of  the  existence  of  law.  There  was  nothing 
that  they  could  understand,  a  priori^  to  necessitate  the 
remaining  of  the  things  where  they  had  left  them.  No 
doubt  there  was  a  reason  in  the  nature  of  God,  why  all 
things  should  hold  together,  whence  springs  the  law  of 
gravitation,  as  we  call  it ;  but  as  far  as  the  boys  could 
understand  of  this,  all  things  might  as  well  have  been 
arranged  for  flying  asunder,  so  that  no  one  could  expect 
to  find  anything  where  he  had  left  it.  I  began  to  see  yet 
further  into  the  truth  that  in  everything  we  must  give 
thanks,  and  whatever  is  not  of  faith  is  sin.  Even  the 
laws  of  nature  reveal  the  character  of  God,  not  merely  as 
regards  their  ends,  but  as  regards  their  kind,  being  of 
necessity  fashioned  after  ideal  facts  of  his  own  being  and 
will. 

I  rose  and  went  down  to  see  if  everybody  was  getung 


622  THE    SEABOARD    PARISH. 

settled,  and  how  the  place  looked.  I  found  Ethel 
already  going  about  the  house  as  if  she  had  never  left  it, 
and  as  if  we  all  had  just  returned  from  a  long  absence, 
and  she  had  to  show  us  home-hospitahty.  VVynnie  had 
vanished,  but  I  found  her  by  and  by  in  the  favourite 
haunt  of  her  mother  before  her  marriage — beside  the 
little  poDd  called  the  Bishop's  Basin,  of  which  I  do  not 
think  I  have  ever  told  my  readers  the  legend.  But  why 
should  I  mention  it,  for  I  cannot  tell  it  now  ]  The  frost 
lay  thick  in  the  hollow  when  I  went  down  there  to  find 
hsr;  the  branches,  lately  clothed  with  leaves,  stood  bare 
a  id  icy  around  her.  Ethelwyn  and  I  had  almost  forgotten 
t^lat  there  was  anything  out  of  the  common  in  connexion 
w  ith  the  house ;  the  horror  of  this  mysterious  spot  had 
laid  hold  upon  Wynnie.  I  resolved  that  that  night  I 
would,  in  her  mother's  presence,  tell  her  all  the  legend 
of  the  place,  and  the  whole  story  of  how  I  won  her 
mother.  I  did  so,  and  I  think  it  made  her  trust  us  more. 
But  now  I  left  her  there,  and  went  to  Connie.  She  lay 
in  her  bed,  for  her  mother  had  got  her  thither  at  once,  a 
perfect  picture  of  blessed  comfort.  There  was  no  occa- 
sion to  be  uneasy  about  her.  I  was  so  pleased  to  be  at 
iionie  again  with  such  good  hopes  that  I  could  not  rest, 
bui  went  wandering  everywhere,  into  places  even  which 
1  had  not  entered  for  ten  years  at  least,  and  found  fresh 
interest  in  everything.  For  this  was  home,  and  heic  I 
was. 

Now  I  fancy  ttty  readers,  looking  forward  to  the  end, 
and  seeing  what  a  small  amount  of  print  is  left,  blaming 
me;  some,  that  1  have  roused  curiosity  without  satisfying 


HOME    AGAIN.  623 


it ;  Others,  that  I  have  kept  them  so  long  over  a  dull 
Dook  and  a  lame  conclusion.  But  out  of  a  life  one  can- 
not always  cut  complete  portions,  and  serve  them  up  "n 
nice  shapes.  I  am  well  aware  that  I  have  not  told  them 
the  fate,  as  some  of  them  would  call  it,  of  either  of 
my  daughters.  This  I  cannot  develop  now,  even  as  far  as 
it  is  known  to  me ;  but,  if  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  them 
to  know  this  much — and  it  will  be  all  that  some  of  them 
mean  hyfate,  I  fear — I  may  as  well  tell  them  now  that 
Wynnie  has  been  Mrs  Percivale  for  many  years,  with  a 
history  well  worth  recounting ;  and  that  Connie  has  had 
a  quiet  happy  life  for  nearly  as  long,  as  Mrs  Turner. 
She  has  never  got  strong,  but  has  very  tolerable  health. 
Her  husband  watches  her  with  the  utmost  care  and  de- 
votion. My  Elhelwyn  is  still  with  me.  Harry  is  gone 
home.  Charlie  is  a  barrister  of  the  Middle  Temple. 
And  Dora — I  must  not  forget  Dora — well,  I  will  say 
nothing  about  her  fate,  for  good  reasons — it  is  not  quite 
determined  yet.  Meantime  she  puts  up  with  the  society 
of  her  old  father  and  mother,  and  is  somethhig  else  than 
unhappy,  I  fully  believe. 

"And  Connie's  babyl"  asks  some  one  out  of  ten 
thousand  readers.  I  have  no  time  to  teil  you  about 
her  now ;  but  as  you  know  her  so  little  it  cannot  be  such 
a  trial  to  remain,  for  a  time  at  least,  unenlightened  with 
regard  to  htr  fate. 

The  only  other  part  of  my  history  which  could  con- 
tain anything  like  incident  enough  to  make  it  interesting 
in  print,  is  a  period  I  spent  in  London  some  few  years 
after  the  time  of  which  I  have  now  been  wriiing.     But  t 


524  THE  SEABOARJ    PAllISH. 

am  getting  too  old  to  regard  the  commencement  oi 
another  history  with  composure.  The  labour  of  think- 
ing into  sequences,  even  the  bodily  labour  of  writing, 
grows  more  and  more  severe.  I  fancy  I  can  think  cor- 
rectly still;  but  the  effort  necessary  to  express  myself 
with  corresponding  correctness  becomes,  in  prospect,  at 
least,  sometimes  almost  appalling.  I  must  therefore 
take  leave  of  my  patient  reader — for  surely  every  one 
who  has  followed  me  through  all  that  I  have  here  written, 
well  deserves  the  epithet — as  if  the  probability  that  1 
shall  write  no  more  were  a  certainty,  bidding  him  fare- 
well with  one  word :  ** Friend,  hope  thou  in  God,'  and 
for  a  parting  gift  offering  him  a  new,  and,  I  think,  a  true 
rendering  of  the  first  verse  of  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the 
Epistle  to  the  Hebrews  : — 

*'  Now  faith  is  the  essence  of  hopes,  the  trying  m 
tilings  unseen.* 


3>^;i3i;i^oE 


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